


A Different Kind of Experiment

by pascaler23



Series: Different Experiments [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Horny John, John is Alone, M/M, Pining John, Sexting, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock Makes Deductions, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-04-25 13:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pascaler23/pseuds/pascaler23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock receives a text that was not meant for him and the man who sent it doesn't seem against continuing the conversation.</p><p>As he wrote, isn't Sherlock willing to do a little experimentation?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Araelle105](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Araelle105/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> This is my first Johnlock fanfic, I'm really happy to post it! This is what happens when I'm really bored in class...
> 
> Just as a general warning, I am francophone, so I'm sorry in advance if you find mistakes in the text. I did my best!
> 
> By the way, when it's written in italic it's Sherlock who is texting, and when it is written in bold, it's John.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it!

“In short, the man wasn’t abducted, he was simply away for the week. His wife took advantage of the situation and faked a kidnapping so she could withdraw money from her daughter’s bank account and keep the ransom for herself. So evident, even you lot should have been able to do it without my help” Sherlock said, hands clasped behind his back.

“Are you 100% certain?” Lestrade asked anyway as Anderson rolled his eye for the fourth time in a row.

 “Since when do you even have to ask?” Sherlock sighed, looking more like if he were talking to himself than anything.

“Alright then. Sally, you’re coming with me,” Lestrade said while turning around, pointing a finger at her. “Anderson, you prepare a warrant.”

Everybody started to move around in the office, and the sight of people running everywhere like they didn’t know what they were doing and Anderson just sitting in front of his computer as always just made Sherlock annoyed at humanity again, so he left the office without another word to anybody. His work there was done.

Once outside, he walked down the street, watching without realizing it the mist caused by his breath coming in contact with the chilly air of a december night, the vapors appearing and disappearing as the lights of the cars illuminated him. Lost in his thoughts, he raised the collar of his coat and continued walking until he saw a cab.

Just as he was getting in the taxi, his felt his phone vibrate, notifying a text. Now, that was probably Mycroft bothering him or Lestrade asking a question about the case. Sherlock gave the direction to 221B to the driver before fishing the electronic device out of his pocket. When the picture he had received opened, the detective's eyes widened for a second.

The photo was of a pair of jeans, actually, more of a closeup of the very evident bulge right under the belt. Was Anderson sending him this as an attempt to annoy him?

But then Sherlock saw the message below.

**My dick’s hard but it ain’t hard for you, shitass.**

At first he wasn’t really sure how to respond; should he make a really mean comment like he’d naturally do or simply inform the stranger he was texting a wrong number? Finally he decided on a sort of compromise.

_Well obviously, since we don’t know each other._

_-SH_

**SH? What’s that? What the actual bloody fuck, Mark?!!!?!??**

Sherlock sighed with exasperation.

_I’m not Mark. You are drunk and you did an error typing the phone number._

_-SH_

**Who do you think you are for assuming I’m drunk you dillhole?**

_First, you used an awful lot of exclamation and interrogation points and swears. Two, you are insulting a stranger and are not at all ashamed or sorry about sending this stranger an explicit photo of you. Three, you made a mistake typing the number. Four, you are clearly trying to get back at your partner from a previous relationship. It must have been a little while since you broke up because you deleted his number from your phone and had to type it to text me instead of having it in your contact list. I guess it’s been approximately three weeks since the separation. You were getting over it. And now you are trying to make him jealous over texting a more or less good picture of you, so something must make you feel sad, angry, nostalgic and have no inhibition. I do hope you are alone doing that or it must be extremely uncomfortable for your visitor. Plus, it is a weekend day close to christmas, and you are alone. Of course you are drunk. As for your spelling, I am grateful for autocorrects. It would give me even more of a headache to read what you write without it._

_-SH_

**Wow. It’s the first time I’ve sent a picture of my cock to someone and have them react like this. Are you asexual or what??!!@?!**

_You are being utterly annoying and I don't have time to spare for an over sentimental drunk, stop texting me now._

_-SH_ , Sherlock typed as he arrived home.

He put his phone back in his pocket and made his way upstairs, falling like a dead weight in his chair. He spent ten minutes sitting there and thinking before he realized he was hungry. He took his phone, meaning to text Mrs.Hudson to bring him biscuits before he remembered that she didn’t own a phone herself. Still, the harm was done: he had opened the screen and remarked the messages notifications.

**Wow. That’s hard.**

**Like my dick.**

**Oh come on, SH. Aren’t you going to answer???!?**

**What does SH stands for anyway? Is that a sort of way to hide your name?**   
**Is it, like, a very weird name?**

 **Sergio Hachette?**   
**Sue Hamish?**

**Sonny Hogle??**

Sherlock answered, not wanting to be bombarded by idiotic texts all night when he was trying to think.

_Sherlock Holmes._

**Sherlock? What kind of name is that? Are you a man or a woman??**

_It’s a masculine name._

**Good.**

**So, Sherlock, you haven’t answered my question.**

**Are you an asexual??**   
**Or maybe, like, just very straight?**

**Cause who the fuck answers like that to sexting!??!**

_We haven’t ‘sexted’, you just sent me a picture of your genitals which was not meant for me and which point was to hurt. There was no attempt at a sexual conclusion to this conversation._

**You really are serious, aren’t you?**

**Don’t you think a little experimentation would do you good? ;)**

**It’d certainly do some to me.**

_Are you saying this is an experiment?_

**It can be whatever you want it to be as long as you get me off.**

_What would be the knowledge or deduction I’ll get out of it?_

**I don’t know, knowing how to turn someone on, which in your case is really not working well. Why are you making this so bloody complicated?**

_Learning how to excite the erogenous parts of the brain with words. Interesting. Considering the increasing amount of sexual related crimes this effectively can become useful._

**What are you talking about? Will you make this worth my while or should I text another random person?!??!**

_So the goal of the operation is to get you to orgasm and ejaculate._

**Yes.**

_You are obviously gay, so the probabilities that you are open to anal and prostate stimulation are higher than common. Would you like to use this too or only stimulate your penis._

**Bloody, mate, you are straight to the point. I must be very drunk though, cause it’s hoooooot…**

_Alcohol affects perception._

**Yeah, I know. Now will you start talking dirty to me?**

_Prostate or no?_

**Yes.**

Sherlock wasn’t sure where to start. He tried to put himself to the place of someone doing this, like he would for the mind of a criminal committing a crime, but it was so different. He had to guess. He wasn’t used to guessing. Only deducting. He had to find words to excite this man -whatever his name was, no relevant. It was an exercise at deducting, and a challenge for his mind. It would do him good to work his neurons after all the boring cases he had had lately. He thought about the biological texts he read in college, and an idea started to form itself in his head.

Foreplay, he remembered. People consider it important. Well, most people. He wasn’t sure what this man wanted, but better safe than sorry.

_Nipples. Tug. Twist. Scratch._

**Mmm feels so good.**

_Which one of the three do you prefer?_

**The one I imagine you are doing it with your teeth.**

…

_I am supposed to do this as if I were with you?_

**Yes. And you feel amazing...**

_Technically this doesn’t make any sense._

**My nipples are all red and hard from your touch.**

_How do you manage to do this while typing on a phone? It must be extremely distracting._

**Lots of practice. Now go on.**

_Pass your hands on your stomach, on your thighs, softly, as if it were my hands discovering you for the first time, as if I wanted to commit every parcel of your skin to my memory, every freckle, every scar._  

What an awful waste of brain space that would be, Sherlock thought. 

**God. I need more!**

If you want more just do it yourself, idiot. You don’t need to wait for me to tell you what to do.

_You can’t touch your penis or your testicules. Anything but that. I get to decide when you do. No one else._

**Please I am drunk and horny and I want to feel you everywhere.**

_Honesty. I like that. Do you want me to be honest with you?_

**Yes.**

_Once I get my hands on that penis, you’ll come so hard you’ll shake to your toes._

_Or maybe I won’t even touch it. Maybe I’ll just penetrate you until you go mad, until you can’t see or think straight, until all that comes out of your mouth are moans and my name. Because I am the one giving you that pleasure, that burn. No one else._

Some people liked to be dominated, Sherlock knew. He remembered Irene. The detective took that chance, waiting to see if his correspondent would be reactive.

**Mmmm I wouldn’t mind that.**

_Your penis would be angrily red, leaking, begging to be touched. Maybe I’ll give in a little. I am not as a cruel as people say._

Dear. That was certainly not pleasant to write. The last thing he needed to spend a nice night was to imagine the genitals of a stranger. How irrelevant was it anyway, imagining something on which you have no information.

**What would you do?**

_What I must to drive you crazy. Touch yourself, fingertips only, light. Like you know I would do it._

**Holy fuck. It’s maddening. Please, please…**

_The look of your features right now... So desperate, begging for me… There’s a teasing smile on my face, pleased, but famished, too._

**Yeah, but smiling is the second best thing you do with your mouth, isn’t it?**

_What are you implying?_

**What do you think?!!!? God, my cock is leaking, it’s not enough and yet so much and it hurts.**

_I don’t know. What do you want? A fellation? Rimming? You need to be clearer if you want me to deliver._

**I WANT A BLOW JOB DAMMIT!**

_Since you ask so nicely, wrap your wrist around your cock. Don’t move._

_Squeeze once._

**Oh yes. Bloody fuck yes.**

_Now lick your finger. Thoroughly. I don’t like half-done jobs._

**Done!**

_Slowly pass it in your slit, like I would with my tongue._

_I’d lick you, getting used to the feel of you. Then, when I think you are desperate enough, I take the head in my mouth, sucking. I never quit your eyes while I’m doing it, and you can help but look down, mesmerized._

**I breath so hard, I’m moaning for you, Sherlock.**

The latter was typing faster, his fingertips flying on the screen, not even pausing as he read the answer the other man sent him. The messages appeared in front of him before he even thought about what he was going to write, as if his fingers were dancing on the phone, making a choreography with words.

_I am kneeling between your legs, looking at your mercy, but I am not. I am the one in charge. I decide what you get, not the other way around._

_I watch your face, and you can feel me taking you deeper, deeper, the hotness of my mouth, the softness of my tongue. I swallow you to the root, your pubic hair hiding my face. You shiver when I moan around you._

**Mmm yes. I’m jerking so hard because of you. I wish you were here.**

_I take you arse my hands, massaging your cheeks while I’m still going down on you. You can feel fingers stroking your crease, closer and closer to where you want them, but never quite there. You start to squirm under me, trying to go deeper in my throat and to bring my hand where you need it at the same time. When you let escape a strangled cry, I take pity on you._

**Oh God, oh God, keep going, I’m so close…**

_Without giving you any warning, I push you down so you lay on the bed. Roughly, I open your legs, baring you completely to me. So pink and red and creamy and mine. You are under the element of surprise, eyes fixed on the ceiling with confusion. Before you even understand what’s happening you feel my tongue inside of you, fucking you restlessly, your tight ring of muscle squeezing me. You grab the sheets, and I can barely hear your cries as concentrated as I am._

**Yes yesyes!!!! ghjjk**

**Dear God. You did it.**

_Obviously._

This effectively had been proven an interesting experiment for Sherlock, but not for the reasons he thought it would.

**Mmm… it was perfect. Thanks.**

_No need to thank me._

**Do you want me to return the favor?**

Sherlock flushed a bit at those words, looking down at his lap. Yes, he had learnt things doing that experience.

This was the first erection he had in eight years. He didn’t even thought he would ever have another one.

He didn’t know if it felt good or bad.

Shaking his head to clear his mind, he typed:

_No, thank you. I’m just glad I could help._

**What a shame. I would have loved to. Another time.**

**I’m all sleepy now.**

_Goodnight._

**I’m sure to have nice dreams.**

Sherlock didn’t know what to answer, too confused by his situation and about what he had just done. Remembering what he had heard some boys talk about in high school, he went to take a cold shower, hoping it would help fixing his problem. He didn’t get much rest that night.

The next morning he blocked the man’s number on his phone, trying not to have second thoughts on that decision.

  
He didn’t have time for this. He had a new flatmate to meet today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you liked it! Feedback is always appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Finally chapter 2! :D
> 
> I wasn't sure about this at first but turns out I really loved writing it, it was so fun! Thank you all guys for asking me to do so! And especially to vertige, who gave me the inspiration. :)
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it.

"Good morning Sherlock", Mrs.Hudson said as she brang the man a cup of tea.

"Good morning Mrs.Hudson", he answered flatly without deigning to give her a glance, apparently lost in his thoughts.

"This is a big day", she told with what seemed like a real enthusiasm, leaving the detective confused.

"In which way? Two people are meeting and considering moving their belongings into the same space, happens everyday."

"Oh Sherlock", she answered while shaking her head, a little smile on her lips. "You are going to meet your new flatmate!"

The man sighed dramatically.

"I really don’t understand the use of the word ‘mate’ in ‘flatmate’. It implies that we appreciate each other, which might not be the case."

"It’ll do yourself good to spend time with someone new, not just dead corpses and the grey hair policeman that always rings late at night. Speaking of that, would you mind getting rid of your skull? It’s a bit unsanitary." 

"You’re worst than my mother", Sherlock grumbled as he took a sip of his tea, just before the cup disappeared under his hands.

"Chose your words carefully young man", the landlady warned with an unhappy tone as she took his tea back to the kitchen.

The detective rolled his eyes.

 

* * *

 

"Ready to go meet him?" Mike asked as John opened the door of his sister’s flat. He really had no other places to go, since Mark threw him out after the break up.

"Yes", the doctor answered, grabbing his phone and his keys with peaky features.

"Feeling alright mate?" Mike asked with a worried voice.

"Yeah, yeah, just a bit of a hangover."

"Oh, you went out last night?" the fat man answered with a beam. "That’s really good, John! You need to relax. Get over the war and Mark, live a normal life. You’re home now. I know it hasn’t been easy for you, all the horror you saw there then him leaving you, but it’s a fresh start."

"Yeah", John answered simply, deciding that letting his friend believe that was better than admitting he spent the night alone drinking cheap vodka Harry had stashed over the house and jerking off to a stranger’s texts. Re-reading those messages that morning, that said-stranger was really rude, he realized. But so had he been so could he blame the guy? He was really harsh and horny when drunk. But still, he didn’t feel ashamed about it. Even if he kind of had talked that Sherlock (what kind of a name is that??!) into it, he hadn’t forced him or anything, and hell, it’s not like he’s ever going to meet him. It had just been good.

"Have you taken water or medicaments?"

"Yes, Mike, I’m a doctor, I know what to do."

"Alright then. He’s given us rendezvous at Barts."

"He works there? Is he a doctor too?" John asked as they sat in the car.

"No. You’ll see."

Apparently he wasn’t going to get any more answers, so the soldier shuted up. Talking wasn’t something he liked to do anyway.

They parked the vehicle in the employees’ parking, and they made their way upstairs into a wing of the building John had never set foot in before. The duo entered a lab, and the sight of all the scientifical material scattered everywhere and projects going on around was something John hadn’t seen since college.

“Bit different from my day,” he said as he gazed at the room.

“You’ve no idea,” his friend answered.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone, there’s no signal on mine,” the stranger said without even looking at them. He was sitting at one of the counters, obviously concentrated on something.

“And what’s wrong with the landline?

“I prefer to text.”

“Sorry, it’s in my coat.”

“Uh, here, use mine,” John suggested before he even realized he was going to. At those words, the man stared at him for the first time. As he looked up from his pocket, the brunet’s gaze crossed his for a second, and God, what was the color of those eyes?

“Oh. Thank you.” He seemed a bit surprised. He got up and reached for the device. John made sure to open a new text conversation before the other man could see the messages he had received the night before.

“That’s an old friend of mine, John Watson,” Mike introduced.

The man in the suit just turned his back to them and started typing rapidly. That was the pushed button that finally irritated John. They were supposed to be meeting their new flatmate, dammit, and even Mike’s attempt to make the brunet talked resulted with nothing!

But before he could make a remark, the strange man cut him.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

[...]

 

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon!” he said with a wink before closing the door without another word, Mike waving at him.

John didn’t move, eyes fixed on the spot where the strange man had stood not twenty seconds ago.

“Sherlock…” he murmured, eyes wide. “Sherlock?”

“Yeah, I know, odd name. But odd bloke, too.”

“Bloody… no. No way.”

“Is he too much?”

The blond man stayed frozen, oblivious to the voice of his friend.

“John?” Mike called, placing himself in the former’s field of view and therefore unfocusing his intense stare. “So? the fat man asked with a smile. “What do you think?”

“He’s… bloody arrogant,” he said, such a little part of the turmoil that was really going on inside his head.

“Yeah. He’s always like that,” Mike answered with a knowing look. “So you’re going to meet him tomorrow?”  
  
“Well it’s not as if I can stay at Harry’s any longer.”

Before coming back home, John took a long walk in the city. It wasn’t for the sights and all the life and history around him; all of that had stopped getting his attention now. Everything surrounding him, no matter what is was, had lost the interest it once had. Everything just seemed… grey, boring. All the buildings looked the same, all the people looked the same, all the sounds blurred together in one unceremonial echo to the soldier’s ears. It was just… off. Nothing was beautiful, nothing was ugly. Just plain and uninteresting. 

All except that Sherlock he had texted the night before and that Sherlock he had met that morning. Which apparently happened to be the same person.

What were the odds of meeting two different men named Sherlock Holmes?

John sniffed at the thought. That was ridiculous. A stranger (even though one with whose help he had had the most breathtaking orgasm he had in a long, long while and with whom he was apparently going to move in with) couldn’t possibly have such an effect on his life. He barely knew the bloody man! Just his name and that he was apparently a pain in the arse. How was that suppose to be the first thing to intrigue him in weeks?

No, the reason for which he was taking that walk was to get home as late as he could. It’s not that he didn’t love Harry- she was his sister after all, and he couldn’t help but care for her. It’s just that, as a brother and as a doctor, coming home to see her in such a state was heartbreaking. And to see her and feeling like he was starting to watch a mirror as each day passed was unbearable. He really wanted to help, he did. But it was asking for a compassion and energy he couldn’t even find for himself before he could share.

Yes. Getting out of that depressing hole could only do him good. That Sherlock clearly had enough energy to share, at least, if he had no other qualities.

Once he had prepared himself mentally enough to come home, John installed himself on his bed after confronting his sister, a sigh of relief and exhaustion escaping his lips. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting his thoughts pass from one to another when an idea popped into his mind.

It was the best option he had, really.

The doctor fished his phone from his pocket.

**Hey mate.**

**There’s no gentle way to bring this up, so I’ll just say it.**

**I’m John Watson, your new flatmate.**

**I’m pretty sure you’re the same Sherlock - that’s not a name I’ve heard very often.**

**I’d understand if you want to act as if what happened last night never did. If you don’t answer this by the time I come to meet you to 221B tomorrow, I’ll never mention it again.**

**Start on the right foot, don’t they say?**

**Good night.**

Honestly, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself, John didn’t know if he wanted an answer or not.

The next day, just as he was standing in front of their meeting point at the agreed time, he checked his phone one last time.

Nothing.

 

* * *

 

He was sitting in a chair, turning his back on the door and reading a book.

“John,” Sherlock said simply. He closed the work between his hands, the thud sound of paper meeting  paper punctuating the end of his stence.

“How did you know it was me?” the blond man said from the doorframe, still not having stepped into the flat. “I didn't rang.”

“Of course not, the doorbell is broken. It was either you or the repairer, because if not I would have recognized the person's steps in the stairway. But would it have been the repairer, I would have heard his tool box as he climbed the stairs.” The brunet turned around in his seat, and cast John an enormous fake smile. “How good to see you!”

“I knocked,” the latter said with a straight face, trying to get back as much as he could at the mysterious man in front of him. After his analyses in the text conversation and of the day before at Barts, John was getting a bit annoyed by it.

“The landlady didn’t hear you, she is starting to have some audition problems even if she won’t admit it,” Sherlock said a bit more quietly, as it was something that was not to be spoken of.

“Sherlock, what are you saying again?!” a voice accused from behind John.

The man is the chair sucked air through his teeth.

“What are you saying to your our new companion?” the same voice, sweeter now, asked as a petite woman grabbed John’s shoulders. She beamed at him, genuine and kind. “You must be John, Sherlock’s new flatmate! Pleased to meet you!”

“Ah, yes, of course, me too,” he answered after a second of bemusement, not used to affectionate contacts anymore. He put out his hand, but she kissed his cheeks instead.

“This is marvelous,” she continued. “It’s going to do so much good to Sherlock to have you around! You know, calm him down a little, hopefully,” she whispered.

At that the man got up and joined them promptly, cutting her.

“John, this is Mrs.Hudson, the landlady.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Well, I’ll leave you with him so he can show you around, and you know, get to know each other,” she excused herself with a smile and leaving an awkward silence behind her.

Once she was gone, John turned to the other man. 

“So, how long have you lived here?”

“Oh, about a year now. It's not bad. Charming area, Mrs.Hudson can be useful at times, and there’s enough place on the counters to do my experiments.”

That last word made the doctor tense up a little as a reminder of the night before, but thankfully Sherlock had already turned his back and was prompting him to follow him in the flat.

“So, here’s the main room, the kitchen is there, bathroom there, my room there and yours would be upstairs,” he indicated by pointing at the general directions before turning around and facing John again. “Are you interested in moving in?”

“Er, let me take a better look?” John suggested with a pointed look.

“Sure, go ahead,” Sherlock answered naturally, seeming oblivious, and sat in his chair again, opening his book. Apparently, he wasn’t going to join John on his tour of the flat. So be it.

As he walked around, peeking a bit in each room, the blond thought over his decision to live with that mysterious man again. Was he really going to be comfortable pretending nothing happened when all he had been able to think of two nights before was that man’s mouth doing incredible things to him? That he was never going to be able to text his flatmate without his cheeks burning up at the memory? But then he remembered what he had debated over in his head during his walk the previous day, and he made his decision. Anyway, if things went bad, he always had a way out. Better to try than to choke. And plus, Sherlock clearly seemed to have no problem ignoring it.

When he was done, he came back to the man waiting for him in the living room.

“So?” the brunet asked.

“It’s very good,” the soldier answered with a satisfied nod. “I could actually see myself living here.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Fantastic. When can you move in?”

“As soon as possible." 

“Well let’s get on with it right now then. I don’t like things that do not end to wait.”

And so John was installed not two days later.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure you recognized the tiny bits of dialogue I used from the BBC. I have no rights over it and will not use it again. It was just fitting well, but the rest will all be original writing.
> 
> Thank you for reading, feedback is always appreciated! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John get to learn to live together and to know each other. Of course, this doesn't happen without tension and misunderstandings and without laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everybody!
> 
> Wow, I'm impressed with out fast I wrote this one! I finished my mid-term exams last Friday and I guess I was a little bit too happy about getting my liberty back and wrote all week-end! :P
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy!

John should have known it. He only just had himself to blame, really. It had been as plain as day from the start.

Still, even two weeks into living on Baker Street, he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it yet.

Living with Sherlock was… interesting, that was the best word for it. John had already eaten his toasts in the morning next to a man manipulating intestines, but that was at the hospital and the man wasn’t _boiling_ them.

He had never been woken up at night either by his flatmate jumping into his room by the window and then walking off like nothing happened. He still hadn’t get an explanation for that.

And Sherlock and Mrs.Hudson both denied that they were smoking, but really it was most entertaining to watch them steal cigarettes to each other.

All of this might have be annoying for anyone else or at any other time, but it was the first action in John’s life for a while now. He’d miss it. To feel alive. To just feel something. 

All the chaos and the energy surrounding him even made him forget how he knew Sherlock in the first place. At first, it had been awkward keeping up a conversation, but as the days passed it was easier and easier. His flatmate knew about a thousand things and was always eager to pass information. (Even if sometimes he sort of over shared, who bloody wants to know about the different types of tobacco ash?) He was slightly bit show-off sometimes. But all in all, John was grateful for it. He didn’t know what was building up there, but it was fresh.

The sound of the doorbell startled him from his thoughts.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

“Must be a client,” Sherlock said flatly, not ungluing his eyes from the rubik’s cube he held in his hands, his fingers moving so rapidly that John almost saw them blurry.

John watched him without saying a word. A minute passed. The doorbell rang again.

“Aren’t you gonna answer it?” the two men asked each other simultaneously. John’s eyebrows raised until they reached his hairline.

“You expect me to answer it?”

“Well, yes, you’re closer to the door,” Sherlock answered with a confused brow.

“It’s not _my_ client,” John retorted and started typing on his computer again.

The bell made itself heard again, and Sherlock got up to answer, looking as lost as twenty seconds ago.

As the client climbed the stairs, the doctor closed his computer and got up.

“I’m going to buy groceries,” he announced. “Need anything special?" 

“No. If you have questions- in case you forget my brand of tea or anything, that happens to the common human brain, just text me. Here, take a card with my number.”

John just stared at him with an unbelieving face. It was almost comical.

Was he really going to pretend that the texting happened to the point of pretending to give John his number like he didn’t knew it already? Wasn’t that just bloody childish?

But then there was no understanding Sherlock’s reflexions and understanding his trains of thoughts about some things was the last thing John wanted, so he just played along, taking the card with a nod and bidding his flatmate goodbye.

 

* * *

 

“You seem distant tonight,” Sherlock observed after dinner, shooting John a confused glance.

“Wow, how were you able to work that out? John answered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You avoid looking at me and you barely talk. You also seem annoyed because you keep sniffing, that’s something I’ve remarked you do when you are unpleased. Plus you-”

“I wasn’t asking for an explanation, Sherlock,” John cut him with an exasperated tone.

The detective just seemed more lost. “Well of course you did, you formulated a sentence with an interrogative structure. Do you know you are very incoherent sometimes? It’s extremely exhausting to try and keep up.”

“You know what’s getting on my nerves.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, we’re not twelve,” John said angrily, dropping his newspaper on his lap. “Why did you give me your card? It was bloody ridiculous. Are you ashamed of it that much?”

“Ashamed of my card? It’s not ridiculous, I thought the design looked professional and classy. Don’t you like it?”

John let out an irritated huff of air, getting up and aiming for his room. “There’s no point in talking to you.”

“Am I interrupting a little domestic?” Mrs.Hudson asked as she entered the room with a broom in her hands, not a second after John disappeared.

“I think he doesn’t like my business card,” Sherlock answered.

“Is he just going to let his things on the table like that?” the landlady wondered, completely ignoring him. “I told him, always bring your cups back to the sink.”

Sherlock grunted and lied down on the couch in a ball, face in the cushions. 

“Why does everybody care about stupid things?” he asked himself out loud, voice muffled by a pillow.

Mrs.Hudson made him a unpleased comment about his behaviour again, and he didn’t listen again, waiting for her to leave the room.

People were so annoying. That’s why he hadn’t been able to find a decent flatmate until a fortnight ago. The old ones would blab about their day and TV and their families and complain about anything he did… Sherlock had to mute them almost all the time so that he could think, and it was so exhausting. In less than a week he had thrown all of them out. John, though, John wasn’t that bad. (Well, apart from his tantrum about his consulting detective card, what was wrong with it?) He did talk a bit too much sometimes, but at least he wasn’t wasting his saliva on irrelevant information. He also inquired Sherlock about his cases and asked questions, suggesting not completely idiotic theories. Plus, he let Sherlock do his things without arguing, even though if sometimes he would shot him quizzical glances.

Not just quizzical, though. A couple of times in the last two weeks, the brunet had noticed John looking at him in a way he couldn’t understand. It was a sort of mix of questioning and longing and amusement and regret and nostalgia? Sherlock had no idea what it meant or where it came from, so he didn’t mention it. He needed to work it out first. He didn’t understand- how could the man have such feelings while staring at him since the first day he moved in? It was illogical. Surely Sherlock was missing something, and it was right in front of him. He hated not knowing!

Anyway, John was one of the only persons Sherlock could stand talking to without rolling his eyes every two seconds, and if he was being honest with himself, the brunet had to admit that it did him good. He… appreciated John. And not just for his mind. Having someone around the flat was pleasant, too.

Mrs.Hudson had been bloody right! Now how bad was that?

He rolled over with a grunt.

 

* * *

 

**_The next evening_ **

 

“So, how was your case? Did you find out who did it?” John asked as Sherlock appeared in the doorframe, fell in his chair and removed his scarf.

“Yes. It was Mr.Lebowski. The millionaire”, he specified.  “Fairly easy, I resolved a case extremely similar not long ago, the night of the 18th of december. He’s an idiot for thinking he could pull the same trick.”

John raised an eyebrow. The 18th. That was 'their' day. The day of the texting.

“You remember the date? Of a case? What was so special that day?” he asked innocently. He knew he wasn’t supposed to bring the subject up, but frankly, he was so annoyed he wanted to feel smug a little.

To his pleasure, Sherlock blushed slightly, but he didn’t quit his eyes, keeping his composure. “I have my mind palace, you know it. I remember all relevant information.”

“Mmm," John answered simply. "I’m hungry", he said after thirty seconds of silence. "Do you want to cook dinner with me? Like try a recipe or something?" 

Sherlock looked up at him. “How come? You’ve never made a recipe here before.”

John laughed. “Yes, I know, that’s why I want to. I want to eat a real meal, not just pasta.”

“Why do you need my help?”

“Come on, mate, don’t be so difficult. It’s going to be fun. You could gather information on cooking or something.”

John had long understood that that was the argument that made Sherlock do anything. Well, apart from getting the groceries.

“How does it work?” the brunet asked.

“Well, we open a recipe book, and we choose one and make it. Easy.” It was incredible how sometimes when Sherlock talked John had the feeling he was four years old, and sometimes while talking to Sherlock he had the impression he was talking _to_ a four years old.

“Alright,” Sherlock said, getting up. “What do you want to eat?”

“I’m feeling like meat.” The doctor took one of Mrs.Hudson’s cooking magazines lying on the coffee table and flipped through the pages before stopping on one. “Look, that seems appetizing,” he indicated to Sherlock, pointing the picture of red peppers stuffed with ground beef. “Can’t be too complicated, it’s a level two of difficulty.”

So the two men started to work in the kitchen, gathering the ingredients on the table, Sherlock classing them in the order they would be used. He then started to chop the vegetables when he noticed John measuring the spice. And clearly he did _not_ know how to measure.

“What are you doing?” he asked with an alarmed voice. “You are going to ruin the whole operation! We’ll have to start over.”

“What do you mean? I’m just adding the spice, look, it’s written to do so right there.”

“It says one teaspoon. This is more than a teaspoon, you have to remove what exceeds on the top." 

John let out an amused chuckled. “So what? I like it that way.”

“But you can’t,” Sherlock argued with a vigor and a determination that surprised his flatmate. How could John not understand? It was the recipe. You had to follow it. “You have to follow the recipe to obtain the best result.”

“Yes, I can. The instructions are just advice, I can change some things to adjust to my taste if I like.”

“But when I do a lab, I have to follow all the protocol or it won’t work." 

“Yes, you cock," said John with another laugh, something affectionate in his eyes, "but this is not as specific. You can get loose a little.”

But Sherlock froze. The name he had used. You cock… that reminded him of something. Someone had called him like that before, he knew. But who?

But then John playfully elbowed his flatmate's flank with a smile, and Sherlock smiled back a bit bashfully.

Ok. That was new.

The meal ended up not being so bad, and the detective had to admit John had been right. Eating homemade food was good. They had a lot of fun while finishing the cooking, and even more talking together as they ate.

Later that night, in his bed, John couldn’t help it. He had try not to, had been successful in doing so in the last two weeks. It was the worst idea, considering their already on edge situation. But with Sherlock smiling at him genuinely with warmth in his eyes, making him laugh, he couldn’t help it. His hair, his long legs, his waist in those too tight for his sake shirts, those cheekbones, the color of those eyes… Since the minute John met the brunet he had been fascinated by his eyes. And now with his intelligence and his sense of humor, and his kindness and humanity he showed earlier that night, it was impossible to resist.

He jerked in his fist, breath shallow and beads of sweat on his forehead, the image of his flatmate behind his eyelids. Oh, all the things Sherlock had texted, the pictures he had painted with words only made John’s cock twitch eagerly against his belly. He had reread those texts so many times, he knew them by heart now. 

_Without giving you any warning, I push you down so you lay on the bed. Roughly, I open your legs, baring you completely to me. So pink and red and creamy and mine. Before you even understand what’s happening you feel my tongue inside of you, fucking you restlessly, your tight ring of muscle squeezing me._

And to imagine those words pronounced with Sherlock’s voice, his mouth and the curved, teasing smile that showed the man knew he was in control…

John muffled his moan with his free hand, feeling his come, white and hot, spurting on his stomach. He basked in the afterglow sensation as long as he could, panting, before reality slammed him in the face and the feeling of ecstasy vanished.

With a grunt, he got up and walked to the bathroom connected to his bedroom, getting in the shower to clean the evidence of his actions.

  
In what was he embarking himself?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked the chapter, feedback is always appreciated! :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Mycroft, a Star Trek marathon and revelations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and I'm sure I'll have even more fun writing the next one! :)
> 
> Thank you everybody who kudos or comments this fic, it warms my heart and just makes me want to write more.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it!

“Sherlock, there’s someone for you downstairs,” Mrs.Hudson informed the man, her head poking from the doorframe.

“Send him away, I’m busy,” the detective answered, turning his back to his landlady so he faced his client again. “What were you saying?”

“I was telling you that the last thing he said to me-” the poor lady began before she was interrupted anew.

“I really don’t think think that he’s going to leave,” Mrs.Hudson tried again in a loud whisper.

“MRS.HUDSON!” Sherlock snapped, and the woman jumped and left the living room. 

“Alright, I’ll get it,” John sighed, pushing his chair away from the desk.

“But it’s not for you,” the brunet said, a crease between his eyebrows.

“No, but you’re impatient and rude, and no one should suffer the consequences of you being an annoying brat.” And with not a glance back, the doctor got downstairs and opened the door.

“Good evening.”

“Hello John,” a partly bald, red haired man greeted with a not totally warm smile. He pointed the tip of his umbrella toward  the hallway. “Mind if I come in?”

“Do I know you?”

“No, you don’t,” the mysterious man answered with another weird smile, walking in without any further authorization.

John stared at the stranger’s back in shock, not moving from his spot. _Is everyone I meet a complete arsehole?_

“Sherlock! What a pleasure to see you,” the man exclaimed when he arrived in the flat, John not far behind him. 

“Mycroft,” the detective said after an over exaggerated sigh. “Couldn’t find the Queen’s feet to kiss so you had to settle to mine? How flattering.” 

“No need for mockery, brother dear.”

_What?_

“He’s your brother?” John asked his flatmate. “You have a brother?”

“Yes. Alas, I am not responsible for how he turned out,” Mycroft said to the blond man with a sarcastic smile.

"What is it you want?" Sherlock inquired without even looking at his sibling.  
  
"Such a cold welcome. Pity."  
  
"It better be important, I'm with a client."  
  
"Yes, it is. Sadly, I found myself unauthorized to speak in front of civilians," Mycroft announced, shooting a glance at the woman and John.  
  
"Alright, take John with you and explain everything to him, I have to finish this."  
  
The look of confusion and of slight anger on the red haired man was quite amusing if you asked John.  
  
"But I just told you, no civilian."  
  
"John's fine, I promise he won't say a word of your little gossip. He's my best man," the detective said while turning around, punctuating the end of his sentence with an enormous fake smile.  
  
"I don't-"  
  
"That's your only option if you want my help, Mycroft."  
  
The latter wore a tight smile, readjusting his grip on his umbrella.  
  
"So be it then. Follow me," he ordered the the blond.  
  
The man turned to face his flatmate.

“And I don't get a say?"  
  
Sherlock shrugged. "Text me the details when you're finished."  
  
John rolled his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

“Four hours, 23 minutes and 42 seconds,” John heard as he opened the door of the living room.

“I take it you were missing me dearly?” he answered, taking off his boots.

“Mycroft certainly didn’t occupy you for that long.”

“No, he didn’t, don’t worry. How was your case?” John asked, sitting in his chair and facing Sherlock.

“What took you so long then?" 

“Oh, I went to drink a coffee and shop for a new shower curtain.”

“So you had plenty of free time.”

“Hm-hm.”

“And texting me the details didn’t occur on your mind?”

“Uh, I did send them to you. Right after Mycroft told me.”

“Didn’t receive anything.”

“Well look again.”

“My phone is in my bedroom. Will you go and fetch it for me?” 

John scoffed. “Uh, no?”

Sherlock frowned. “But you’re-”

“Closer to your room, yes, I know. I thought we already had a talk about this stupid logic of yours.”

The edge of Sherlock’s mouth bent playfully. “I was still hoping to knock some sense into you." 

“I may be a bit more hard headed than you’d like.”

“It’s always nice to get a little challenge.”

The men sat in agreable silence for a while, Sherlock shooting John curious looks without the other man knowing before the moment was interrupted.

“I feel like watching a movie,” the blond said, stretching.

“I don’t like cinema.”

“Nah, don’t try to pull that one with me, mate. I found the stash of Star Trek dvds.”

Sherlock blushed slightly, looking away. “You did then?”

“Yes,” John laughed softly. “Hiding things in the pantry isn’t very secretive for the person who gets the groceries. Don’t worry, mate, those movies are quite good, I like them too. Actually, tons of people do. You don’t have to be ashamed about it.”

“I am not ashamed.” 

“Alright,” John said, ignoring that Sherlock was clearly lying. “Want to watch one?” 

“I don’t really care, it’s you who want to watch a movie.”

“Ok then,” John answered, wondering if his flatmate would stay and watch it with him.

And he did. They actually ate on the couch before Mrs.Hudson told them to take the food away from it or she would make them clean it. While the movie played, John spotted Sherlock mouthing the lines when he thought the doctor wasn’t looking. It made him smile. It was so fun to see him as he was, not all show-off arrogant consulting detective and all. Being passionate about something that wasn’t linked with psychopaths and murders. John liked both Sherlocks, but it felt special to see that one.

They ended up watching two movies instead of one, arguing over which captain was the best over the whole serie, and if the new movies were as good as the classic ones. When the credits started rolling, Sherlock turned to John. He looked more relaxed, posture not perfectly straight, his shoulders less tense, something eased in his features. He should take more time for himself, John thought.

But just as he did so, Sherlock cut his reflexion. “So what did Mycroft tell you?”

“Go fetch your phone, I didn’t write it all down for nothing.”

Sherlock sighed, only half kidding. “Alright then.”

John started to put the dvd back in its case when he heard his flatmate’s voice behind him.

“I still didn’t receive it. Something’s wrong with your phone.”

“And why couldn’t it be that something’s wrong with yours?” he asked, installing himself in his chair.

“Well give me your phone number, I’ll text you and we’ll see which one is faulty,” Sherlock suggested, imitating the doctor and sitting down.

And that suggestion was the last straw for John. He couldn’t continue like this anymore.

“Are you kidding me? Are you actually doing this again?” he asked with a hash tone.  
  
“Doing what?” What happened to make John’s attitude switch like that? It has been a pleasant evening, no?

“Stop acting like a child! It’s just insulting now. Don’t you think it’s been bloody enough already?!”

“Enough of what? What are you talking about? Please keep a logical link between your sentences.”

“OF YOU ACTING LIKE NOTHING EVER HAPPENED, YOU DICK! I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF IT!” John yelled, getting up on his feet.

“I don’t understand, explain yourself.”

“The texts! The texts of the 18th!” 

Sherlock frowned ever harder, a light blush coloring his cheeks.

“How do you know about those?”

“Jesus! What, I need to bloody say it so you stop avoiding it?! Fine. We sexted. You and I. What more do I have to say so you stop being a complete cock?!”

Silence fell over the room. The couple of seconds it lasted seemed to stretch into hours, the sound of John’s angry respiration becoming uncomfortably loud.

“You mean... That the person I texted was you?" Sherlock finally asked.

"Yes! Now will you bloody stop acting like you don't know?”

"But that's impossible," the detective said slowly, looking at John with something indescriptible in his eyes. "He was... And you are..." He made a gesture with his hands, unable to find the right words. 

John's face fell when the realization hit him, something turning upside down in the pit of his stomach. "You really didn't know." It wasn't a question.

Sherlock looked in his friend's eyes. "I blocked your number the next morning."

"Oh Jesus." John head bent, passing his hands on his face as he took a deep inspiration. "I'm sorry for anything I-"

"Don't worry. I understand that you were frustrated, it was perfectly normal." Something was of with his voice, but John thought better than to push it.

"Alright," John sighed. "Is there anything you want to say to me?"

"No," Sherlock answered slowly, as if he was still trying to determine if it was the right answer. "You?"

"I can't think of anything right now."

Silence again. John shifted on his feet.

"Do you mind our... situation?"

Sherlock seemed to be taken by surprise by the sound of John’s voice, being too lost in his thoughts. Quickly he regained his senses. "No. It happened before you knew me, therefore you didn’t imagine me and didn't have sexual attraction for me specifically. That makes it ok."

John cleared his throat. "Seems good then."

Just as he turned around, Sherlock's voice interrupted him. "You don't mind, do you?" he asked in a hurry. Just on the edge of on panic, John would have thought if he had known Sherlock better. He was probably worried about losing another flatmate. He had told John about the difficulties he had encountered in that area. He probably didn’t want to get in all the trouble of finding another one again.

"If I had any I'd be gone already." 

"Oh. Right, yes." Sherlock looked down, a little bit ashamed.

"I'll be in my room."

"Alright."

And with the awkward feeling he was leaving some unfinished business behind, John climbed the stairs.

Sherlock stayed motionless until John was out of sight. Then he let his tense muscles relax, feeling his body sink in the cushions. He brought his hands together under his chin and closed his eyes, letting out a long breath he didn’t know he had been holding. Everything was chaotic in his head, informations passing to fast for him to analyse and bumping against each other. He shook it to clear his mind.

He couldn’t associate them. His John and the man he texted. His John and that John. That man... he wasn’t John. That man was a depressed, pathetic, craving for attention and sentimental drunk. His John, he was strong, smart, clever. And…

Broken. So obviously broken. And hiding it. He realized it now. The first person to fool the great Sherlock Holmes.

Why? Why would John hide it? He needed support, he needed comfort, he needed love. Then why keep everything to himself? Why not talking about it like common people do? If anybody deserved to be happy, it was John. 

But the detective had to admit to himself that he couldn’t blame his flatmate. Who would come to Sherlock Holmes for sentimental support? He was normally the one _creating_ that need of support. And what did John think about their situation and about his past? He could certainly lie to Sherlock about it. Was he disgusted by what they did? That would be comprehensible. Ashamed? Sherlock was none of the above, but he couldn’t know what was going on in normal people’s minds. It was something out of his reach, something he had a lot of difficulties understanding.

But the brunet couldn’t help it, no matter what. He wanted to help John. It hurt that he couldn’t. It hurt in a way it had never before. It was new. Overwhelming. He wasn’t used to feelings. He didn’t like experimenting new ones. It was as if something gripped him and he couldn’t detach himself from it, like a persistent gluey octopus wrapped around him. And ironically, the only two men that made him feel unusual things in the last month happened to be the same person.

He had to think about this. And this was a sort of thinking he didn’t like.

 

* * *

 

 

John was sitting at the feet of his bed, not believing what had just happened. If he had a chance of anything working out before, it was over now, no matter what Sherlock said. John just… He had found something. Finally found something that brought something to his life. And he was going to lose it all over again. Just like he lost his job, just like his lost his friends in Afghanistan, just like he lost his sister, just like he lost his boyfriend. And Sherlock, he was so different. Fresh air. Adventure. Funnier. Better. Probably the only thing that could help him heal anymore. Even if nothing ever happened between them. And he lost that.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. Nothing could change now, he couldn’t go back, couldn’t take those secrets back. He screwed it all.

But then his text alert resounded in the heavy silence of the room, and maybe it wasn’t all lost.

_Are you awake?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehehe so the big secret is out. ;) Thank you for reading, feedback is always appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys talk, then they go on a case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the long wait, I had so much work to do lately. Good news it, I am going to get a whole month of vacations for Christmas so I'll post tons of new chapters then. :)
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy the chapter, feedback is always appreciated!

Sherlock heard the footsteps before he saw John walking downstairs. He had seen that his flatmate had read his text, but it took him a good five minutes before he actually came down. The detective looked at him, and they both froze for a second, staring in each other’s eyes before John started moving toward the kitchen. Sherlock shot his friend’s back a quizzical look for his bizarre behaviour.

Sherlock sat down when John didn’t come out for awhile. He had decided what he was going to say earlier, and with which intonation, but he just wanted John to get there so he could just be done with it already. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help John, it was that he didn’t know how successful he’d be at it. Better rip off the band-aid quickly in case it hurt.

The doctor came back from the kitchen, sitting down in his chair with two cups of tea, placing them on the table and giving Sherlock a small smile.

“Tea,” Sherlock said, an approximation of a thank you.

“Cheers. 

They both took a sip before the brunet put down his cup loudly.

“I have been thinking.”

If John blanched he didn’t let his fear colour his voice.

“Of course.”

“And I have come to the conclusion that I have a question to ask you.”

John didn’t respond.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock looked at him in the eye.

“What? Yes, of course,” the man answered. Did he really let his stress show that much? He thought he had been doing well. 

“No, John,” Sherlock said more softly than John had ever heard him talk. “Are you _alright_?”

“Yes,” the blond answered, a warmth filling him at the care Sherlock showed. He hadn’t been expecting that, and the genuineness of the question touched him, more than it probably should. 

“Because when we texted that night, you weren’t well. You were not… like you are everyday.”

John could hear the implied question. _Are you pretending that you’re ok?_

Sherlock’s way of bringing up things will never stop making him smile.

“Honestly, Sherlock, I have barely given a thought about Mark or my sister or the army since I arrived.”

“Oh.” 

If the detective had any reaction, he didn’t let it show. 

They both took another sip. 

“But thank you,” John felt he needed to say outloud. He was sure that it hadn’t been easy for his flatmate.

“Well, if you have any more, er, concerns, you can tell me about it if you want,” Sherlock said, looking down at his cup.

“Aye, mate.” 

John got up, aiming to clap his friend on the back and bid him good night. He was very taken aback though when he felt stiff arms encircling his waist. Very. Awkwardly. 

He froze, and a millisecond after, so did Sherlock. After what seemed like an eternity, John untangled himself, looking down at his flatmate with a confused brow.

The latter didn’t say anything, just stared at the other man with a mortified look on his face.  
  


John stared back, and suddenly bursted laughing hysterically until a small smile brightened Sherlock’s features.

“Will you come with me tomorrow on a case?” he asked.

That took John by surprise. 

“Why would you need me to come?” 

“I like hearing another point of view; sometimes people remark things that are wrong, and I might I realize something by telling how they didn’t see correctly.”

“Isn’t that Anderson you always belittle doing a good job at that already?”

“No, now he seems to have completely shuted up when I’m around. He doesn’t fancy it when I project his intellectual lack to the world.”

“Blimey, I wonder why.” 

“I’m helping him by showing him he is wrong.” 

“Keep telling yourself that if you think I believe you,” John said, amused.

“Anyway, will you come or not?”

“Well, it’s not like I have anything else to do, don’t I?” 

“True, you spend too much time in the flat. Soon you’ll start melting into your chair.” 

“I don’t just sit around and do nothing. I write my blog and I do all the groceries and I’m looking for a job.”

“Blogs are futile, John. You need another occupation than me." 

That he so did.

 

* * *

 

 

**_Next day_ **

 

“Hello, freak.” 

“Donovan,” Sherlock said flatly, passing through the door and not sparing her a glance, continuing his way into the house. “Where's Lestrade?”

“Upstairs,” she answered before she noticed John following him. She stopped him with a frown and a pretty hard grip for how petite she was.

“Where do you think you’re going? This is a crime scene.”

“He’s with me,” Sherlock intervened.

“With you?” she asked, eyebrows raised. Then she looked at John with worry. “He’s not paying you to do weird stuff, is he?”

Oh, now John understood why Sherlock bitched so much about them.

“I’m his flatmate,” the soldier provided.

"A new flatmate? Good, we can restart the bid on how long it'll take before you leave. I thought we needed some action at the office."  
  
"Actually, it might be a bit late for that. I've already been on Baker Street for a month."  
  
"A month?" she repeated, incredule. "You've been living with _him_ for a month? What is that even _like_?" Sally asked with a voice filled with horror and stupefaction.  
  
"Sally!” a man yelled from the second floor. “Did I hear Sherlock's voice? Is he here? I need him!"  
  
The girl sighed. "Listen, you being freak’s flatmate or not, you are not allowed here."  
  
"Why do you keep calling him freak?" John accused at the same moment Sherlock declared, "He is coming with me, his opinions are relevant to the case."  
  
"Look, cheekbones-"  
  
"Sherlock, come here please!" the same man yelled again.

  
Sally sighed, dismissing them with a movement of her hand.  
  
"Just do what you want."  
  
The “Thank you” that John would have normally said didn’t happened. A weird glance, that she got.

As they made their way to the second floor, John spared Sherlock a look. He kind of wanted to talk about how that Sally had treated him, but at the same time he knew it was common and the detective didn’t seem affected by it for a second. But then, he was excellent at hiding his emotions. John decided against bringing the subject up. They have had their dose of awkwardness in the last 24 hours.

“Lestrade,” the brunet greeted to a grey haired man who was currently talking rather fiercely on his mobile. As soon as he saw Sherlock, he told over the line, a little bit fumbling to find the words, “Eh, I’ve got, eh, backup that just arrived, I’ll call you back.”

“Sherlock,” the he then said. John recognized his name. He was the detective inspector that kept texting Sherlock for help. Lestrade saw John and, after frowning for a second, extended his hand for a shake. “And who are you? Another detective? I didn’t know Sherlock had colleagues.”

“John Watson,” the blond introduced himself, returning the handshake.  “I-”

“John is my friend and flatmate and a doctor and will be of great help for this case,” Sherlock interrupted quickly. “Now, John, this is Gabriel Lestrade, Lestrade, this is John Watson, can we now get over this shallow human presentation protocol and get to work?”

“Gabriel? You think my name is Gabriel? How can you be wrong again?!”

Sherlock frowned with incomprehension. “I’m never wrong.”

The policeman just sighed, clearly used to letting the matter go.

“Alright. Are you allowed here?” he asked, turning to the doctor. “You need an authorization from my superiors.”

“Don’t try, Lestrade, your superiors don’t even know that _I_ am here,” Sherlock said, walking past him to inspect the crime scene. John looked at the inspector, waiting for a permission anyway. The man just sighed again and nodded.

The soldier followed his flatmate into the other room, freezing a bit when he found him lying on his stomach on the floor, crawling while watching scrupulously through his pocket magnifying glass and occasionally sniffing the ground.

“Wow, you’re quick to get to work.”

“And you, slow. I didn’t bring you here for nothing.”

“I don’t even know anything about the case.”

Sherlock looked up from the wooden floor, confused.

“Lestrade didn’t tell you?”

“You were there the whole thirty seconds I’ve met him, did he explain it to me?”

Sherlock looked down again, trying to hide his slight shame. “Obviously not, I should have known he would not be efficient.”

John smile subtly, the curve of his mouth amused and somehow loving. Thankfully, his friend wasn’t looking at him.

“Then I’ll have to go ask him, shall I?”

“Why do people always state the obvious?” the detective muttered to himself.

 

* * *

 

 

The two men have been back in the house for four hours now. John had learnt quite a while ago already that there was no point in waiting for Sherlock when the latter was thinking. It was just too long and he told John to shut up every time he only opened his mouth. The doctor had no idea how Sherlock even knew he was about to talk, his eyes were bloody closed!

That is why John was losing his time on the computer, looking for buying new jumpers, writing on his blog and watching a stupid video Mike send to him and things of the sort.

Observing Sherlock’s position always made him smile. The brunet had started on  his chair then had moved so he was lying on the sofa and now he was upside down on it. His face was remarkably still too white for all the blood that must have relocalized in his head and his hair was dangling toward the floor. His hands were his their regular position, pressed together under his chin. God, that must be so uncomfortable.

And after four hours of complete silence, the man opened his eyes, letting out a frustrated growl. “I still don’t understand how it is possible! I’m going to have to go back and take more samples. I should always take more samples!”

“You really never learn,” John said ironically. Sherlock made him an unpleased face, all scrunched. The soldier just laughed.

“You know, with you being upside down, this is possibly the one time you don’t look attractive.”

Sherlock’s face straightened immediately.

“You find me attractive?”

_Shite._

John blanched and blushed at the same time. Thankfully, his computer screen half hid it. Like that would fool Sherlock, but better than nothing. 

“Well, you fit the description of attractive by social standards.”

“I hardly think that too thin, too tall, pale with prominent cheekbones is what society finds attractive.”

“Can we stop saying the word attractive?”

“Why? Does it make you uncomfortable?”

Really, it was most weird having this conversation with Sherlock still in that position.

“No, it doesn’t. I just think this conversation is done.”

Sherlock seemed on the edge of retorquing, but apparently he changed his mind and started to talk about the samples he would need and how John will have to help him.

The latter wasn’t sure if the sudden change of comportment from his flatmate’s behalf was a relief or not, but better to go with the flow than to turn the knife in the wound.

“...and the wood with which the floor was made is from a tree that only grows in Kazakhstan, and I never studied this type before. Which fits well, because the section of my blog about plants is unacceptably lacking. I hope to find trace of trimethylaminuria in the sample, if my smell was correct, which it always is.”

There was a silence. John didn’t know what to answer, because even as a doctor, he couldn’t identify what trimethylaminuria could possibly be. After a while Sherlock looked up into John’s eyes for a second and said, “I need to think about this.

  
The brunet got up swiftly before reaching for his violin. He began a song, looking through the window as he often did when he played. John installed himself more comfortably on his chair, letting the soft notes wash over him and absently watching Sherlock’s silhouette as graciously moved, a soft smile decorating his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frustration, parrot's ovaries and a dinner at Angelo's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!!
> 
> I hope you all had a merry christmas and I wish you a happy new year!
> 
> Sorry for the wait, but yeah! all my christmas parties are over now and I still have 3 weeks off, so tons of updates are coming!
> 
> I really enjoyed writing this chapter, I hope you'll like it too! :)
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated.

John cracked his eyes open, adjusting to the morning light when he jumped and let escape a small yelp, covering his chest with the cover.

“Good morning John!”

“Sherlock." 

“Hmm?”

The man was apparently very concentrated on his phone.

“What are you doing in my bed?”

He frowned. 

“What are _you_ doing in your bed?”

“Eh, sleeping?”

“Exactly. Who needs to sleep? Sleeping is boring. Such a useless use of a bed.”

John wanted to answer a thousand things simultaneously, but nothing came out.

“Anyway, I thought we could stay in today,” the man continued. 

John arched an eyebrow, starting to forget the fact that they were currently having a conversation in his bed, while he was clad in nothing but pants. 

“You? Want to stay in?” 

“What is wrong with staying in?” 

“You usually have a fifteen minutes long answer to that.” 

“This doesn’t answer my question, hence I believe you have no valid arguments.”

“Why do you want to stay in?” John asked after a few seconds, his eyes never quitting Sherlock’s face while the latter typed rather rapidly on his phone.

“Oh shut up, you like to stay in.” 

“Well, ok,” John said, bending and grabbing a shirt on the floor, putting it on and resting his back against the headboard next to his friend. He curiously checked what he was doing on his phone. He knew that was impolite, but Sherlock did it to him so often that John didn’t care if he did it to Sherlock anymore. “What do you want to do then?” 

“I don’t know, do you have any suggestions?”

The doctor looked at his flatmate, lost. “You want to stay in but you don’t have any plans? Isn’t that... ordinary?”

“I never heard you complain about ordinary before.”

“I never heard you not to.”

Sherlock sighed, closed his phone and turned to face John. The latter was slightly surprised by their sudden closeness, and realized that they were on his bed. Which he wasn’t sure he liked or not.

“What do you want to do today?”

“I… don’t know, I just woke up,” John said slowly, looking into Sherlock’s eyes which looked back at him intensely. Every time Sherlock looked directly at him, actually, even if it happened rarely, it was just so strong, so passionate in a sort of way, like everything Sherlock did, and it just left John breathless. To have all that beautiful mind and all that attention just for him, just for a second, was humbling, somehow. And John didn’t want to admit it, not even to himself. 

“Well then,” Sherlock said, turning around with no warning and getting energetically on his feet. “Use that sad little imagination of yours and come and tell me if you have an idea. I’ll be in the kitchen dissecting parrot’s ovaries. Don’t worry, I won’t use our utensils and not wash them afterwards like last time,” Sherlock said before John could open his mouth to tell him exactly that, because his mind had not fully realized what had just happened and giving a logical answer seemed easier than to try and put his feelings into words.

 

* * *

 

 

John was _so_ blind. Or stupid. No, John wasn’t stupid. But so bloody _obstinate_ . Sherlock was trying. Really trying to make an effort. To show John that he liked him more than he usually liked people. That he cared. Ugh. He had asked John if he was alright. That was showing care, wasn’t it? And he tried his best to make him smile. And now he offered him a day off in his company because he knew John liked to stay in and he knew John liked him. I mean, Sherlock was giving him his _time_. When he could be doing other things. That got to mean something, no?

And it wasn’t as if John didn’t show that he liked Sherlock. It was so obvious, even Anderson should have been able to see it. With John defending Sherlock to Donovan and making food and calling him attractive without realizing it. And just the way he looked at Sherlock whenever he thought he wasn’t looking. The fact that he made Sherlock actually cook and doing Star Trek marathons with him. Those were all so obvious signs. Even John couldn’t do them without realizing. It made Sherlock want to tear his hair off. How more could he show John he liked him too?

The man cut the parrot’s ovary in his microscope with a little too much force than necessary. It broke. With a grunt, he removed the glass rectangle and threw away the egg.

“Having trouble?” John asked from the kitchen doorframe, dressed in pyjamas and dressing gown.

“I was just testing the firmness of the membrane.”

“And?” John asked as he made his way to make himself and Sherlock a cup of tea.

“Disappointing.” 

“Well, it is not normally to be split in half by a scalpel.”

“Also disappointing. I like to split things with scalpels.”

“Yes, as I’ve noticed. Where did you get those ovaries anyway?”  
  
“Veterinarian owed me a favor. She was accused of stealing a rabbit and making experiences on it. It glowed in the dark. Turned out it wasn’t her.”

“The poor little animal,” John murmured, shaking his head.

“It’s just a rabbit, you simply have too much compassion, which hurts you in the end.”

Just turned around with his cup, looking offended at Sherlock. “I’m sorry?” 

“Your compassion. Always gets you in the end. You feel sad for an unimportant dead rabbit. You feel sad and guilty about your sister and for your fellow soldiers in Afghanistan that are still fighting while you came home because you had the chance of being injured. This is also amplified by the fact that you are an army doctor and you saw many of them die right in front of you. You feel bad because you lost more of them than you have saved. While during that time, you are hurting, and yet you feel no compassion for yourself, only for them. But you are more important. Don’t feel guilty. You didn’t kill any of those men. You didn’t make your sister alcoholic. Everything you’ve done was to make them feel better, and that’s already better than anybody I’ve known. So you should take care of yourself too, because they need you.”

John stared at Sherlock in shock. In the almost two months he had lived with the brunet, it was the first time he had been so sentimental. And yet it had been said with an even tone and a straight face, as if Sherlock was just stating a fact. Which he probably thought he was. It was just the eyes that betrayed him. The way they looked at John again. That way that made John feel butterflies in his stomach and his brain blank. And the doctor thought that for once that Sherlock opened up, he should do something to show it was appreciated. So he crossed the small distance to the table and gently put his hand on Sherlock’s forearm.

The latter raised his head sharply, looking at John with clear surprise.

“Thanks. Nobody told me anything supportive or made me feel like I’m worth something in a while.”

“You are,” Sherlock said with the same voice he used when he had asked John if he was alright a few days ago. After a couple of seconds of stillness, John turned around and grabbed Sherlock’s tea, passing the cup to him. Of course, he didn’t say thank you. He just took it, still looking at John, before he suddenly looked down at his ovaries.

“So, have you got any idea of what we could do today?” he asked.

 _Talk and cuddle for hours in my bed,_  John thought.

“I thought we could read and maybe watch some telly and later tonight we could go to Angelo’s,” he said instead.

Instead of saying boring, which would have been his first instinct, Sherlock said, “A dinner at Angelo’s?”

“Yes. Since we’re having a day in, we might as well have a night out.” 

“Fair point.”

“We could invite Mrs.Hudson for a game of cluedo.”  
  
“Absolutely not, hearing her reasoning makes me what to throw myself of the rooftop. Doesn’t it makes you go nut?”

“Actually, hearing _your_ reasoning while we play cluedo makes me go nut.”

Sherlock raised his eyes. “Your mind is so vacant. You don’t understand the underlayer of the game.” 

“You imagine it.”

“I should invent a new version of cluedo,” said Sherlock, ignoring John’s last comment. “So that intelligent people could play and actually have fun.”

“The famous detective Sherlock Holmes inventing board games. Imagine what Mycroft would say."

Sherlock glared at his flatmate. “I don’t care what Mycroft think of my board games.”

John repressed an amused smile at the childish ridiculousness of Sherlock Holmes saying that sentence. “Let’s just settle for chess.”

“We both know I’m going to win anyway.”

“If you want to play, shut up.”

So Sherlock shuted up.

 

* * *

 

 

“Ah, Sherlock!” Angelo said with an enormous beam as the man walked in, accompanied by John. “I’m so happy to see you! Here, sit down at the table next to the window, it has the nicest view in the restaurant. Should I bring a bottle of wine?”  
  
“Yes,” Sherlock approved while sitting down. “And I’ll take the veal and John will take the pasta.”

“In a moment,” Angelo said, still smiling, and disappeared.

“Ok,” John asked as he installed himself on his chair. “How did you know about the pasta?”

“It’s of a childish obviousness. You always take either the pasta or the fish when we come here, but you’ve already have fish for lunch. Really, John, you shouldn’t have to ask that one.”

_Yeah, but I know you like to show off._

“I was just warming you up. Everytime we come here you always start deducting  everybody.” 

“I do not need warming up to deduce.”

“Here’s your wine,” Angelo announced, coming back to the table. He poured a bit in a glass for Sherlock to try, but the detective offered it to John. 

“It’s alright,” the latter decided after tasting. Angelo served them both a glass before fishing a lighter in his pocket and lighting the candle at the center of the table.

“So,” John opened. “Do you have any cases tomorrow?”

“Yes. A client emailed me about his frog. He claims it disappears at nightfall and reappears the next morning with a new spot on its back.”

“You’re sure he’s just not bonkers?" 

“If he’s bonkers at least he is definitely not boring, which is better than a lot of sane people.”

And, in some weird way, that made a Sherlock point of view logic, John had to admit.

Not long later Angelo brought their food and the deducting started.

“That lady with the blue coat has spent a lot of time in front of a screen lately. She keeps rubbing at her eyes but she does not have facial symptoms of tiredness. Only her eyes are tired: too much exposition to a screen. But considering the relaxed state of the muscles of her hands she didn’t used a phone or a keyboard, so she must have been watching the telly. She is also wearing earrings of that phone box in that TV show you like, so the chances are high that she watched it a lot lately. She must be like you, addicted to that non-sense ridiculous story. And that man over there, with the ugly hat-”

“I don’t see him.”

“At the end of the hallway.”

“I can’t see that far from here.”

“Stand next to me, you’ll see him." 

So John walked around the table until he reached his friend, bending so his eyes would be at the same height as Sherlock’s.

“He’s hiding to his wife the fact that he’s a diabetic. I noticed him throwing the sugar pack for his coffee-”

But John wasn’t listening to him anymore. He needed to concentrate on his balance because he felt the hot breath of Sherlock across his cheek and his legs suddenly went wobbly. He closed his eyes, relieving in the feeling of Sherlock’s heat radiating to him and in the soft baritone of his voice, and if only he could just-

“John? Are you even listening anymore?” Sherlock asked, his face turned toward his flatmate with a furrowed brow.

“Yeah, sorry, go on,” John said with a slight shake of head, regaining his countenance. Shit. That couldn’t happen again.

“So, as I was saying, since he found out she was cheating on him with an athlete, he’s been concerned about his weight and believes that the knowledge of his diabete might make her go away for good and…”

The rest of the dinner past swiftly, and John was able to forget about the whole incident as he listened, fascinated, to what Sherlock was explaining and tried to see things as the detective saw them, so he could, hopefully, be able to deduct them too one day. There was no bill to pay since Angelo adored Sherlock so much, and they headed back home. It was snowing outside, something extremely rare in London even if they were at the beginning of February. John looked at the snow, amazed by the sheer beauty of it in the darkness of the street. He could only see it when the flakes passed in front of the dim yellow light of the street lamps, like little spots of magic, and suddenly he longed for Christmas.

They walked in silence, him in contemplation and Sherlock apparently lost in his thoughts. It was comfortable, sort of recomforting. It was their usual routine, and it made John feel good to have a routine with someone. He had never stayed in a relationship long enough to have little moments like this, and he found out he loved it. 

They reached 221B, and John turned around to wait for Sherlock to open the door since he has left his keys inside. The brunet didn’t move. 

“Sherlock?”

The detective looked down at him. John made him a questioning face and then Sherlock advanced a step toward his flatmate. 

“Sherlock?” John repeated with more confusion.

The man bent and carefully captured John’s lips with his. He stilled for a fraction of second before John kissed him back, grabbing his dark locks.

“Sherlock,” he said before kissing him again, and Sherlock grabbed John’s waist softly. The cold air suddenly seemed hot as they kissed. John’s mouth was so warm. Sherlock’s lips were so soft. 

They separated after a few seconds, looking at each other in the eyes. They seemed bright in the obscurity of the night.

 

“Let’s go in,” John murmured, and took Sherlock’s hand in his.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mainly snogging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I'm not really happy with how this chapter came out, but I hope you'll like it anyway!
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated. :)

Sherlock followed John up the stairs, stopped two or three times on his way when John turned around and grabbed his collar to kiss him. Not that Sherlock was complaining. The stairs might not be the most ideal place, the detective reflected, but John and him were finally on the same page, and finally all the acting could stop. He could show John what he meant to him, show John how truly formidable he was, show John he was unlike anyone he ever knew. Plus, in the stairs they were at the same height, which wasn’t bad. Although, Sherlock did love how John was smaller than him, his to protect.

They finally reached their flat. John never let go of Sherlock’s hand, guiding him without stopping past the kitchen.

“I take it you don’t want tea?” Sherlock asked, the first words he’s spoken since they left the restaurant. 

“No,” John answered, guiding them to the detective’s bedroom. They walked inside and the blond turned around to face his flatmate.

“We’re not going to…” Sherlock asked, looking suddenly unsure, as if he just realized where they had been going.

“No, no,” John answered quickly. “I just thought we could talk and maybe… cuddle for a bit.” That sounded a tat ridiculous to say to Sherlock Holmes, but God knows he had been wanting just that for days.

“I’ve never cuddle before.”

He looked down at John, and John suddenly remembered Sherlock had really no experience in this. He would have to lead him, to show him. And that was such a weight, he thought. He wanted to make it perfect, because Sherlock, Sherlock who had live alone and in coldness for years, who has never been in a relationship before, deserved it more than everybody else, and he should feel nothing but loved and cared for and protected. And it was humbling, to have all that trust put in him, and it was equally so stressing. John internally calmed himself, being steady for his friend. They’d go one step at a time.

“If you don’t feel comfortable doing it, it’s alright. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

“Oh John,” Sherlock said with a little smile. “I want to try everything with you. Discover it with you.”

“Like an experiment,” John said and smiled back, referencing to the first time they texted.

“Not exactly,” Sherlock said, amused, and bent to press his lips to John’s. The latter closed his eyes and let Sherlock lead, happy to just lean against him and enjoy the moment. He could continue to kiss Sherlock till he drowned. He never wanted to stop.

“Want to cuddle now?” John asked softly when they separated.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, and guided them to the bed. John lied down on his back and Sherlock installed himself next to him with a slight distance between them. John smiled at him and put an arm around his shoulders, bringing him closer until Sherlock’s head rested on his chest.

“How’s that?” John asked.

“It’s alright, I guess. Your skin is warm. It feels nice.”

They stayed silent for a little while, John closing his eyes and reveling in the moment. Sherlock liked him too. Sherlock wanted him that way, too. It felt like something clicked in John’s life. Even with Mark, or the ones that came before him, it seemed like nothing just… felt right like this. This was complete. With Sherlock there was adventure, caring, the most crazy stories, impossible things, laughs and intelligent discussions in his life. As much happy he had been with his exes, there was the hint of a future solidity here he never had before.

“I’m still not entirely successful at associating the two of you,” Sherlock said out of the blue a few minutes after.

John turned his head so he could look down at his flatmate, opening his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“When we texted that night, I thought of you as being an dependant bossy drunk. And then I met you, and you were smart and talented and mature and calm. I never saw in you the hint that you could be as you were that night. It seemed so far away from the you I know, the you I like. It made me realized just how strong you are. I already knew you were strong, but you passed from one extreme to another and never plunged back. That’s not nothing.”

In response, John tightened his hold on Sherlock.

“If I were still at my sister’s, alone with alcohol stashed everywhere instead of here with you, I can tell you I would have plunge back.”

“But you’re the one who succeeded, I am not.”

“I told you, since I’ve been here I’ve barely give a thought to my sister or Mark or-”

“You really can’t just shut up and take a compliment, can you?”

John laughed, bringing Sherlock up for a kiss. It started softly, chastely, but soon it became heated, the two of them fighting for dominance. John definitely knew he wasn’t the first person Sherlock kissed. He was too confident, it felt like he knew exactly what he was doing. Then again, wasn’t Sherlock acting like that for everything he did?

After a minute, Sherlock installed himself fully on top of John, his forearms resting on each side of his head as he nipped at John’s lips. The doctor moaned in response, his hands fisting Sherlock’s hair. He had always wondered if it was as soft as it looked, had always dreamed about feeling those dark curls between his fingers. Now he could. He kissed Sherlock back fiercely, rediscovering the surface of his palate, the velvety of his tongue. The detective moaned back, his hips jerking a little against John’s thigh. Undeniably, he had felt John’s erection, obvious and uncomfortably compressed in his trousers. Sherlock separated their mouths with a little gasp, looking into John’s eyes, his pupils dilated, eyes dark passionate, asking for a permission. John nodded vigorously, trying to move so his hips would arrived flush with Sherlock’s. He needed to feel Sherlock, needed him to be exactly where John wanted him.

Sherlock started to rub, slowly at first, kissing John deeply as they rolled their hips together. John passed his hands under the detective’s shirt, passing his palms on the hot, slim surface of Sherlock’s back. He felt as if Sherlock were the only thing in the world, trapping him against the bed, his weight pressing against him, the maddening roll of his hips on his, his tongue dancing with his. All he could smell was Sherlock, all he could feel was Sherlock, all he could see was Sherlock and all he could taste was Sherlock, and it was _glorious_. He wondered if he would ever be able to live without this again, was scared by how already he was craving it like a drug. 

Their pace started to accelerate as their shaky breathing became panting, the two of them gripping what they could and breathing in each other’s mouth instead of kissing, the jerk of their hips now erratic. John bit hard on Sherlock’s lip as he came, moaning long and loud as he clutched at his flatmate’s back.

When he regained his senses after a blissful minute, he realized Sherlock was now moving in abrupt jerks against him, trying to stay still but failing. He was looking at John, eyes dark and mouth wet and slightly open, some of his locks damp against his forehead. John wondered how he had gone two months resisting to this man. “Ride my thigh, I want to feel you come against me,” he whispered hoarsely, and Sherlock growled, rubbing frantically until he started shaking, letting go and falling like a dead weight on John. The latter hold him gently as Sherlock became a sleepy contented mess. They stayed like this for a few minutes as they tried to regulate their breathing and come back to reality. At some point Sherlock disentangled himself from John, rolling on his side and looking at the ceiling.

“We should get clean, it is most uncomfortable,” he said.

John chuckled. “I can’t contradict you. You can take the shower first, I’m just going to lie down here for a little bit longer.”

Sherlock sat up and bent so his face was in front of John’s. He looked at him intensely before a fond smile decorated his lips and he kissed him chastely. He left John smiling back and got up to go to the bathroom.

The doctor stretched like a tired, happy cat and closed his eyes. He would just relax five minutes before it was his turn for the shower. Just five minutes…

John woke up the next morning with two opposite sensations. One very pleasant, and the other, not quite. For the first time in weeks, he woke up with a smile on his face, reveling in the feeling on Sherlock’s nose pressed in his hair and his hot breaths against his nape. He took the time to remark everything, to be sure to miss nothing of this moment. He basked in the sensations of Sherlock’s legs intertwined with his. He felt the soft press of Sherlock’s knee against the clothed flesh of his inner thigh, the warmth where Sherlock’s naked chest met his back. The detective’s arm was wrapped against his waist, holding John close to him. The latter was slightly surprised to realize Sherlock was wearing nothing but pants, but he couldn’t have known what Sherlock’s sleep attire was. It wasn’t an unpleasant surprise. Actually, the only unpleasant thing was the fact that he was still wearing his day clothes and he felt something sticky in his own pants. With an unhappy grunt, John got up, trying not to disturb Sherlock’s sleep too much, and made his way to the bathroom, getting undressed and starting the water in the shower. He cleaned the mess and spent a few minutes relaxing under the spray, playing back in his head the events of the previous night and trying to convince himself he wasn’t dreaming. When he got out, wrapped in his robe, he made his way to make himself eggs and tea when he noticed Sherlock in the sitting room. 

“Hello,” he said with a smile.

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock answered him from his chair. John walked the few meters until he arrived in front of Sherlock and sat on his lap.

“How did you sleep?”

“Very well. So did you.”

John shook his head, amused, before grabbing Sherlock’s hair and pulling him down for a light kiss. He could do that now. He was allowed to kiss Sherlock whenever he wanted.

“Tea and toasts?” he asked when they separated.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, getting up after John and reaching for his violin, the music soon filling the flat.

 

Just another normal morning at 221B.

Except John woke up in Sherlock’s bed.

Not a bad improvement.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! :)
> 
> New chapter, yay! I don't know why but I don't feel very happy with it. I really thought I would I have finished with this one sooner, but I couldn't resist and wrote a smutty Sherlock/Reader one shot instead. :P
> 
> Two chapters left to come!
> 
> Thanks for reading, feedback is always appreciated!

The flat was full of people that day.

  
Not that John would usually mind. It wasn’t as if he disliked the people visiting them. (Well, except for Donovan). Mrs.Hudson stayed upstairs for about an hour not long after they’ve woken up and brought them tea and biscuits, which delighted Sherlock. Mycroft passed right after to give his brother incoming information about a case John and him were working on, which secretly delighted Sherlock. Lestrade came by not long later to discuss a murder, which delighted Sherlock. Donovan accompanied Lestrade and kept trying to get to Sherlock and he kept retorquing to her, which secretly delighted Sherlock. All in all, delighted Sherlock, annoyed John.   
  
The doctor was used to that. Not a day passed without action on Baker Street. It was just that he would have liked to be the reason for Sherlock’s good mood instead of it being two persons found dead in hammocks and apparently killed by a blowpipe. He wished he and Sherlock could spend their first day as a couple together, alone in their flat cuddling and snogging and shagging.   
  
If they were a couple. Weren’t they?   
  
John realized he wasn’t sure. They hadn’t say they loved each other; it was still too early for that. And had Sherlock ever been in a relationship? Did Sherlock even want a relationship? Surely. John hoped. Probably. But Sherlock had not made one move to tell anyone they were together, as if what happened the previous night wasn’t significant. It wasn’t just a sort of experiment on sex for him, was it? “I want to try everything with you. Discover it with you,” Sherlock had said. That seemed horribly accurate.   
  
Sherlock seemed to pick up on John’s mood, because he stopped listening to Lestrade. He turned his head toward his flatmate and shot him an inquiring gaze, a frown of concern on his forehead. John waved a dismissive hand and gave Sherlock a small smile, which didn’t seem to reassure him at all. Within reason. The brunet turned back to Lestrade, who had not remarked anything of the exchange, too deep in what he was saying, but John could still see the slightest tension on the edge of Sherlock’s mouth. Shite. It came upon him that did they happened to be a couple, he’d never be able to hide anything from his flatmate.   
  
“We’re going to examine the bodies at Bart’s,” Sherlock announced John a few minutes later. The two detectives got up, then Donovan catched up a few seconds later. “I texted Molly, she’s waiting for us.”   
  
John nodded, lost in his thoughts. He didn’t realize he hadn't move, looking at his flatmate until it came upon him that Lestrade and Sally were already downstairs and that Sherlock was waiting for him in the doorway. He was looking at the doctor with the same concerned features he had when he was looking at John earlier   
  
“Don’t you want to come?”   
  
John came back to reality. No, he didn’t want to go. He didn’t want Sherlock to go. He wanted to them stay there finally that Donovan and Lestrade were gone. But he also didn’t want to ruin everybody’s plans by acting like a needy teenage girlfriend. “Of course I want to come.”   
  
The detective clearly didn’t believe him, staring at him with those sharp analyzing eyes and looking torn between pushing the matter and letting it go. He finally opted for a sort of compromise.   
  
“We can talk when we come back home.”   
  
Count on Sherlock for being blunt like that. Not that John even just as flinched anymore, used to that eccentric man, so he went along with it.   
  
They made their way in the cab, not far behind the police car. Sherlock was locked away in his mind palace for the whole ride, pondering about all the information he had and trying to form new links between it. That was usual, so John looked outside to distract himself. The snow had rapidly been taken away by the rain of that morning, and it felt as if everything was back like it use to be.   
  
Everybody was waiting for them as they entered the laboratory. Sherlock ignored them completely, not even sparing them a glance as he crossed the room to inspect the bodies.   
  
“Hello Molly,” John greeted. She returned the gesture with a little smile, and he joined Sherlock at the table just a they’ve been doing for a dozen times or so. The brunet was already enthralled by the corpses, examining them with his magnifying lense.   
  
“What do you think, John?” he said without looking up.   
  
The man took a medical look at the bodies, frowning when he noticed vomit in the woman’s mouth. He palmed her jaw and her armpits, and then did the same to the man.   
  
“Well?” Sherlock asked impatiently.   
  
“It isn’t the blowpipe that killed them.”   
  
“It isn’t?” He didn’t sound surprised, but he also didn't sound dubious. That was a rare thing, Sherlock not rejecting someone else’s theory before he even heard it. Everybody else's theories were idiotic.   
  
“They were killed by venom first.”   
  
Now that seemed to surprise Sherlock. Not that anybody except John was able to see it, though. You’d have to know the man ike the back of your hand to recognize the features of surprise on that impassible face.   
  
“Explain yourself.”   
  
John entered in full doctor mode, monologuing as if he were talking to a nurse, back in the old days. “Traces of vomit are noticeable in the woman’s mouth," he started, pointing to show Sherlock what he was referring to. "This is a symptom of envenomation, but it doesn’t happen that often. It could be the effect of the shock and the stress of being shot. On the contrary, though, the two corpses died with swollen ganglions, which is the sign of an infection. They could both have been sick, which is unlikely. Or it could be venom. The probabilities that it was venom is higher because of the fact it is transmissible through blood, and the blowpipe was in contact with it. With all those facts together, I’d say that the murderer spread venom on the arrow of the blowpipe.”   
  
Sherlock just stared at him for a couple of seconds, looking frozen, and then he suddenly grabbed him by the collar and pulled him for a kiss. Not just a little peck; a long, deep, all tongue and hot kiss. John froze in turn, too surprised by the rapidity of what was happening to react properly.   
  
He heard Molly gasp and Donovan make a disgusted sound, still trying to process Sherlock’s lips against his when the man let go of him.   
  
“That was so sexy,” the detective murmured huskily, eyes fixed on John’s, and damn, that should be wrong but it didn’t feel like it.   
  
Donovan's “UGH!!!!” made him turned around before he could lose himself in Sherlock’s eyes. Molly looked in shock, a hand covering her mouth in surprise, Sally looked half about to throw up half pissed, and Lestrade’s face was just blank.   
  
“You’re- You’re together then?” Molly asked after a couple of seconds of silence, which might as well have been eternity.   
  
“Well, isn’t obvious?” Sherlock asked, and went back to checking the bodies.   
  
“That was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen, and I’m in the police! Who would ever want to kiss a man whose face looks like a-”   
  
John and Lestrade snapped out of their daze at the same moment.   
  
“Sally, this is unacceptably unprofessional-”   
  
“Will you shut your hole for one bloody time?!”   
  
“John, come and see this,” Sherlock ordered his flatmate, not reacting at all to the scene in front of him.   
  
The doctor looked back and forth between Donovan and Sherlock, uncertain of what to do, until he sniffed one good time to express his irritation and joined his friend.   
  
“What is it?” he asked, his tone all of the sudden soft.

The detective started to explain to John how it was possible to deduce from the angle of the wound from where the arrow had been blown. That leaded to a monologue too fast and with too many parts happening exclusively in Sherlock’s head and not making the way to his mouth for his flatmate to follow, so the latter let Sherlock do his work and tried not to let the smugness he felt inside show on his face. And only partly succeeded. Sherlock had shown to everybody he was John’s and John was his. They were in a relationship. John restrained a giggle. Bugger, he had never felt that ridiculous in years. But he found he quite enjoyed the giddiness.

The two men stopped to get lunch on their way home (well, John ordered a hamburger with a salad and some fries, and Sherlock ate all of his olives, which was annoying because John liked olives, but if they were the only thing Sherlock was going to eat, he was willing to make that sacrifice). Once home, Sherlock went downstairs to take some food in Mrs.Hudson’s fridge because, “John’s taste in restaurant is dreadful and only she makes edible meals” but he came back with a cup of tea. John wondered how come the detective drank so much tea and yet never seemed to go to the loo. Sherlock sat down on the arm of John’s chair, watching what the latter was typing on his computer.

“Another blog post? Don’t you think people are tired of your stories already? You make them all so…” he made an unclear gesture with his hand. “fanciful. You don’t develop enough what’s relevant.”

“If people are tired of them, they can just stop reading them. Nobody’s forcing them to.” John stopped, his face blank with sudden realization. “Wait. You’re not making your brother forcing people to read my posts to make me happy, are you?”

Sherlock scoffed with indignation. “Please. I never needed Mycroft’s help in order to make you happy. And I would never impose those blog posts to the world. Even I don’t despise humanity enough for that.”

John beamed in response, which made Sherlock frown. Had he not understood what he just said?

“You said you want to make me happy,” John explained.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I  _ implied _ it. And yes, of course, you idiot."   
  
The doctor smiled even harder, because that was as romantic as Sherlock got, and it was more than enough from him. John grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down, feeling the brunet smile back against his lips.   
  
"Why did you tell no one this morning?"   
  
Sherlock understood what John meant.   
  
"There was no need to. Mycroft deduced it the second he stepped into the flat, he simply didn't say anything because he can always use that knowledge to his advantage later.”

“I don’t think that’s-”

“I felt no need to tell Lestrade nor Donovan since I knew that at some point I wouldn’t be able to resist the urge of kissing you or touching you- they would have known eventually. As for Mrs.Hudson, soon enough she’s going to hear us shagging. I don’t see the point of-”

“Wait! I don’t want Mrs.Hudson to-”

“Telling her we are together earlier than necessary, she will only be annoying sooner.”

John beamed anew. Sherlock looked down at him and couldn’t help but give him a fond smile. The expression in his eyes cut John’s breath. How could he have not seen that Sherlock cared for him so much? That he treated him differently than anybody? He had been so bloody blind.

“So we are a couple then?” he asked.

“Idiot,” said Sherlock softly with a little smile, and kissed his boyfriend tenderly.

“What was that thing that bothered you before?” the detective asked between two kisses.

“It’s nothing. All resolved now,” John answered breathily, and pull at Sherlock until the latter was sitting on his lap. He pressed their mouths together again, lingeringly.

“I’ve never felt such an enjoyment at kissing,” Sherlock observed with an even voice after a little while. “It always seemed futile and banal. Now I understand the fuss about it.”

“That’s because you weren’t doing it with the right person,” John answered, and brought Sherlock’s lips back against his. Sometimes Sherlock talked too bloody much when there were more interesting things to do with his mouth. They kept kissing for a few more minutes, rediscovering each other like they had the night before. It seemed more natural each time, felt always righter, always better. Like it was meant to be that way. The detective let go of John’s lips, letting the passion cool down, and pressed the most delicate kiss on John’s eyelid.

“You are the only one to ever have felt right,” he whispered, and John felt Sherlock’s lips caress his skin as he spoke. The doctor almost didn’t hear the words as softly as they had been pronounced. His eyes were still closed from Sherlock’s kiss, all his attention on his flatmate, and Sherlock knew could finally open himself without being judged. The fact that he dropped his mask for John broke their last barrier, and the connexion between the two men seemed to deepen at that very moment. They could feel it in the air.

“Come to bed with me,” John murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smuuuuut is coming. ;)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mainly shagging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I'm SOOOO sorry for the wait. It's been 45 days since I last posted! D: It was a crazy month! I had a new nephew, I was sick, I had SO many exams... But here it is! And this chapter is almost 3 times the length of a regular chapter, so I hope that'll make up for the wait.
> 
> This is only the second time I write a long, described smut, and I'm not so sure about how good it is, I hope you guys will like it! Feedback would be hugely appreciated!
> 
> Ok, sorry for the rambling, enjoy! :)
> 
> PS: There's only one chapter left!

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed with John on his lap. Two hands were cradling his cheeks, holding him carefully but lovingly as if he were the most precious thing in the world. John rubbed their noses together, slowly, nuzzling into Sherlock like he needed to ground himself in the moment, to take in everything around him because it felt surreal. Sherlock understood, because he felt the same way. The tenderness, the sweetness of it felt more intimate than anything they had ever done. There were no words to describe the strength of it. The detective could feel John’s slow, even breaths fade against his cheek. The warmth of John’s skin pierced through the layers of their clothes and brought him a sort of soothing comfort. The doctor pressed their foreheads together, simply holding Sherlock for a minute, before he tilted his head and pressed the most gentle of kisses on Sherlock’s lips. He took his time, remembering how nervous Sherlock had been the previous night even if he hadn’t let it show too much. John knew. It was as if all Sherlock felt, John could feel too. At that moment, he felt he could read Sherlock, analyzing him like Sherlock normally did to him. And he knew Sherlock was nervous. Trusting, but nervous. That fact made John nervous, to have all that faith put in him. But he thought that if he could do anything right, it was this, because nothing had ever felt right like this before.

For the first time in years, Sherlock was scared. The man had fought the most terrible criminals, murderers, rapers. He had been beaten down, drowned and had nearly died from overdoses many times.  And yet, he had never known what fear felt like. Obviously, he knew what it should theoretically be like, was able to recognize the physical symptoms of it on clients or on victims. But he had never tried to visualize it on himself. When he first felt that new, distasteful, nauseous sensation, he has been taken aback by that sickly turn in his stomach, the way his heart was beating rapidly, his mind frenzied and his palms moist. He was disgusted by it. Fear was a natural reaction for common people. He was above that instinct that made the reason of the mind vanish. He _should_ be above that.

And yet, there he was. Staring eye to eye with John Watson, their breaths the only sound in the quiet intimacy or their flat, in the most peaceful surroundings, and he was scared.

They were so many new desires and sensations running through him that is was overwhelming. So many things he’d never even given a second thought to before. But now, looking at John, his John, he wanted things he never thought he would in his whole life. He felt the urge to press a soft kiss on each of the blond’s eyelids. He longed to map the surface of his chest with his lips, with his hands, to learn the feel of him, to have it imprinted on his hands, in his mind. He needed to feel the weight of John’s cock against his tongue, the thickness and hotness of it down his throat. He wanted his flatmate to moan for him, wanted to drive him incoherent with pleasure, to show him Sherlock could give him things like that. He wanted to tear John apart and put him back together. His finger itched from the urge to stroke the line of John’s jaw, his lips tingled to feel another kiss pressed to them. He wanted to whisper words in John’s ear that would usually make him gag with disgust. And it was irrational. And it should be annoying, but it wasn’t.

Normally, feeling a hot, wet and sticky body against his would just be considered nasty. But the idea of their sweat, their saliva, their come mixed together, _oh God_ , it was making his dick twitch. He wanted them to be one, and he thought no one except John Watson could ever be such an amazing being that _he_ would long for such a connection between them.

What was shocking him wasn’t just his desire for John. It was that all he wanted to do to John, he wanted John to do to him. And he just couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that he actually wanted someone so close to him, in his intimity. That just the idea of John’s tongue teasing his entrance was making him shiver. God, he _needed_ John there.

“What are you thinking about?” the said man asked at the exact moment, reading all the musing in the depths of Sherlock’s eyes.

“I need you, John,” the detective answered with a hoarse, desperate voice.

The doctor dropped the lightest of kisses on Sherlock’s heart through his shirt, soothing him. “Let’s take one thing at a time.” Gently, he pushed his flatmate down so he was lying on top of him, Sherlock looking up at him with wide, dark eyes. John brushed his cheek over the line of Sherlock’s jaw, then buried his nose in the brunet’s neck and inhaled the clean, manly scent of him. He brushed his lips all along Sherlock’s throat until his shirt prevented him from going further. His hands found the buttons, opening them one by one and discovering the milky silk of Sherlock’s chest. When the piece of clothing was open, he tentatively pressed a kiss to one of those little, pink nipple offered to him. Sherlock tensed, taking a sharp breath, and John backed off a little.

“Why are you so much more nervous than yesterday?” he asked. He understood why Sherlock was nervous of course, but what they had done the day before had been way more... sexual than this, for lack of better term.

Sherlock kept his eyes riveted on the ceiling, his head shaking imperceptibly. “I didn’t think it would go that far yesterday. I couldn’t think about it before it happened. Now you’re seeing me.”

John didn’t know if the detective meant emotionally or physically or both, but it didn’t matter.

“And you seriously believe I don’t like what I see?” he asked in a soft voice. Sherlock looked down at him, which was what John wanted him to do. He didn’t answer, so John knew Sherlock knew John liked him. He just didn’t understand why.

“When you look at me,” the blond started, “I see breathtaking, unique eyes I’ve never seen before staring at me a way I’ve never been stared at before. When I see your cheekbones, I think of how they elegantly form you face, sharp just like your mind. And I adore your mind. They fit you. Nothing about you is weird. It’s perfect.” He dropped a kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. “When I look at your lips, I think of all the things you texted me, all the things I’m physically suffering for you to do. Every time I walked past you for the last two months, I’ve been dying to comb my fingers through your hair, to feel if it was as soft as it looked.” He pressed his lips against each of the detective’s fingers. “And your hands, those dexterous, long fingers, the thought of them touching me, Jesus. Your legs…” He looked up to gaze at Sherlock in the eyes. “And don’t even get me started about your mind. Because I could go on for hours, about that sharp, funny, sexy and cleverest mind I’ve ever seen.”

Sherlock just grabbed his hair and pull him down for a hard kiss, his other hand fumbling to get John’s shirt off him.

“Easy there, mate,” John breathed against his mouth.

“I need to see you, I need to touch you.”

“Take it slow, you’ll enjoy it more.”

“John,” Sherlock said, staring at him in the eyes with an urgency and a plea even though his voice was calm. The doctor nodded, and Sherlock inversed their position, pushing John’s shirt over his head. Straddling his lap, the detective looked down at John’s naked chest, something hot and reverent burning in his eyes. He passed a hand up and down on it, feeling the sparse blond hair tickle his palm. Experimentally, he stroke his thumb on John’s nipple, and the latter let out a contented sigh. Encouraged by the reaction, he pinched it, and John closed his eyes, arching his neck. Sherlock continued to explore, thrilled to see his flatmate react so positively under his ministrations, to see he could make John like that with his hands and not just his words. He drank the sight of him, drank all those little huffs of pleasure coming out of his mouth.

“You’re gorgeous,” he told John, and it was the first time the doctor heard him call something beautiful. He gazed back at him, hypnotized.

“My turn,” he told Sherlock hoarsely. He needed to touch him again. Never, ever stop. Couldn’t stop. John had to make Sherlock feel beautiful.

The two men moved to the center of the bed, John kneeling and Sherlock imitating his move. The blond placed himself behind Sherlock. The loss of his wonderful hands left the John cold and wanting, but it had come as a relief, too. He was getting hard just with Sherlock looking at him, and he wanted this night to last longer than the previous one.

“I want to make you feel good,” he whispered in the crook of the brunet’s neck, a hand making its way around Sherlock to slip into the opening of his shirt. The detective stayed still, but John heard his breath hitch. He kissed Sherlock’s trapezium, stroking the soft skin of his chest with the tip of his fingers, reveling in the warmth of it. He grazed one of the nipples lightly.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, so quietly the man wasn’t sure if he imagined it or not.

John started to suck on the neck exposed to him, and this time he was sure Sherlock gasped, arching his neck until his head rested on John’s shoulder. Carefully, the doctor closed his free hand around Sherlock’s shaft. The hard bulge he found there gave him shivers of anticipation, and he rubbed his palm on it. The detective groaned, pushing his hips into John’s hand, and the latter decided he rather liked that reaction.

“Please, please,” Sherlock kept whispering incoherently, mind gone.

John opened the fly of the trousers and slipped his hand inside. His mouth started to water when he felt wetness against his fingers. Without waiting, he pulled Sherlock’s prick out of his pants, his dick standing proudly. John looked at it, his pupils blowing. It was long and slim, so soft, pink with little beads of precum pearling on the head, and _god_ was it the most beautiful cock John had ever seen, and John had seen a _lot_ of cocks. And it just… fitted Sherlock, in a strange but good way.

“Like what you see?” the latter asked, and John wasn’t sure if he was being smug or not.

“Deduce it,” he answered, and passed his fingertips along the length. He brought one of the little beads of cum to his tongue, unable to resist the urge. Sherlock stared at him from the corner of his eye as John sucked on his index. The detective was hypnotized, mouth gaping. Then he closed it to moan when John started pumping his shaft, slowly, stroking the head with his thumb on each way down. He resumed his forgotten job at marking the brunet’s neck, smirking when he felt fingers curl in his hair. He moaned encouragingly when he felt Sherlock rock into Joh’s palm and back against his dick.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, his plea augmenting as John’s grip on him intensified. “John, John, John, John, John…” And the latter couldn’t wait to feel him come on his fingers.

Sherlock suddenly broke their embrace, pulling away and gasping. John was slightly disappointed, but the sight of Sherlock that desperate, slick with sweat with his locks damp on his forehead and his hard, red cock dripping made him forget it.

“I- I need a moment,” Sherlock said between shallow breaths, and John nodded with a soft understanding smile and sat on the bed. The longer their night lasted, the better. The detective installed himself between John’s legs, putting his arm over the one that encircled his waist. He let John absorb his weight, relaxing against him and closing his eyes.

Sherlock seemed to regain his countenance, his breathing regularizing and eyes getting clearer. He turned around and stared stared at John, take in the sight of him and smiling a happy, tired smile back. He arched his neck to kiss his mouth sweetly, and felt an involuntary small jerk of John’s hips against his backside. His eyes darkened anew already.

“You. Need those clothes off.”

The two men worked together on undressing themselves, their movements hasty and precipitated, not sensual yet sensual at the same time. It was rough and gentle touches, bites and sweet kisses, and Sherlock didn’t know what to anticipate, how to prepare his mind, and it just felt good, so good, to let his mind be free. Another amazing thing John had brought to his life. They just seemed to keep piling up.

He finally got his flatmate under him, his eyes taking in all of John for the first time; his scar on the shoulder from when he had been shot, the beauty spot on the side of his hip, a birthmark on his thigh, another scar on his knee from when he had had an injury as a child and so many others he had surely got during the war, and suddenly Sherlock understood what people meant when they said that sometimes defaults make people even more perfect. Because those scars, those battle wounds, they just showed how strong John had been, how brave, risking his life to live to fight for his principles, to save innocents, to save Sherlock. Those scars were just like Sherlock’s own scars; they were alike, they got hurt, they healed, and now they had each other. The next wounds they’ll get, they’ll heal better, together. They wouldn’t matter anymore.

He lavished the mark of the gun shot with his tongue, with his lips, then did the same to all the other ones he found. John’s breath was calm but shallow, his eyes closed as he concentrated on the feeling of Sherlock. It felt overwhelming to see the man reverenced to him in such a way, to feel him cherishing his body. He had always hated those scars, had thought they were making him look disgusting and weak. He had never believed he’d ever find someone making him feel like they were beautiful. Sherlock loved those marks. It made the detective sick to know that John had experienced pain upon getting them, but they were a part of who John was today, and Sherlock didn’t know what he’d be without him. Everything that made the man he loved, any part of John, no matter if it were his heels or his ribs or his scars or his forehead deserved his entire devotion.

Lost in his daze, too concentrated on his task, the detective only realized he was gradually moving toward John’s cock when his face was inches away from it. To see it from so close, observing every little detail of it, the subtle different shades of skin colour, the light hair, the way John’s cock twitched to the left in excitement, how a bead of semen was running down its length, Sherlock couldn’t resist and cocked his head to lick the precome. The taste didn’t surprise him so much. It was slightly more bitter than his own, but then again John drank more coffee. The detective couldn’t remember when but he had read somewhere that some food influenced the taste of sperm. John gasped loudly, screwing his eyes shot and grabbing Sherlock’s curls in his fingers. The sight of John made Sherlock completely forget about his train of thoughts. He looked up at his boyfriend, admiring his arched neck, loving how he felt he had control of the situation. John liked what he did, that was indisputable. With a smirk, he licked John from base to top. He kissed the head and took it in his mouth, sucking experimentally. John’s reaction was highly positive, moaning and jerking his hips. Sherlock fought a gag reflex, keeping John in his mouth, but his discomfort had been evident.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” the doctor rasped.

Sherlock put his hands on John’s hip to still him, bobbing his head a few times to see how far he could go without feeling uncomfortable. When he felt he found the right ratio, he did experimental swirls of his tongue on the head and across the slit accompanied by sucks. John breathed with difficulty, alternating on staring heavy lidded at Sherlock or resting his head on the pillow to groan. God, the technicality of it was so much more complicated than it seemed, Sherlock thought. But when he got the hang of it, making sure he was doing correctly, he permitted his mind to relax and to enjoy it. John was scraping his nails against his scalp, urging him on, and it felt so bloody fantastic, soothing him and arousing him at the same time. He brought one hand to John’s balls, his eyes rolling back in his head when he found them hard and full, so on the edge of orgasm. He loved the weight of the dick settled on his tongue, how it filled him, how he was filled with John and he couldn’t help but wonder just how much better it would feel in his arse. The thought made him moan, and the vibrations ran through John’s cock and made him escape a small cry. Suddenly he pulled out of Sherlock’s mouth, smearing a trail of precome on his cheek by accident as he did. He looked down at the brunet, almost coming when he saw him run his thumb across his cheek and slowly suck it in his mouth, eyes never quitting John’s as he did. And Jesus, where had he bloody learn to do _that_?

“Need to be inside you,” John told him with a hoarse voice. Sherlock smiled for a second, but then something changed in his eyes, so quickly that the blond couldn’t even see him move. Before he knew it they were plastered together and Sherlock was kissing him, filthy and or so erotic.

“Then take me,” the detective whispered, voice rough from that amazing blow-job, and sucked on John’s tongue.

The doctor kissed him back, his strong hands grabbing that firm behind of Sherlock’s. The man groaned in his mouth, the vibration going straight to his cock, and he felt Sherlock starting to rub against his thigh frantically, desperately.

“Ssh, ssh, easy there. We don’t want to rush it and miss the best bit, do we?” John whispered soothingly, one of his hand going up to stroke Sherlock’s back. The detective suddenly stopped his movements and hid his face in the crook of John’s neck, taking deep, shuddering breaths. He was clutching to John, the grip of his fingertips almost painful, but the blond would not have change it for anything in the world.

“John. John…”

“Sshh, it’s okay, just lay back. Lay back and let me take care of you like you took care of me.”

Sherlock probably just thought of how he had taken care of John sexually, John figured. He didn’t think of how he had save John from everything. The boredom, the loneliness, the depression.

John would just have to show him.

Carefully, they laid back together, John ending up on top of Sherlock. He slided down his body, hands caressing it on the way down. He felt the bump of Sherlock’s nipple under his palms, the silk of his stomach, the tickle of his hair below his navel, the strong muscles of his thighs. John slided his nose across Sherlock’s leg, following the curve of his knee, his calf, until he was at his feet. He looked up at his detective, finding those hypnotizing, incredible eyes staring down at him with wonder and incredulity, his breathing still slightly elaborated.

John smiled softly, holding his gaze, then bent his head and pressed a soft but heavy with meaning kiss on his ankle. Sherlock’s breath itched, and John smiled, sliding his lips up on Sherlock, dropping lingering kisses on his way. His fingers linked with the brunet’s owns. He dropped light kisses on his eyelids, his cheekbones, his forehead, his chin, making the detective chuckle softly. Then John froze and swore.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, nervous to have done something wrong. Was it bad to laugh during sex? He thought that it was generally something people liked, but maybe John wanted something more passionate?

John closed his eyes with frustration. “I- I’m so sorry. I haven’t got any condoms, I- fuck. I’m sorry, I didn’t bring any with me when I moved in.”

“I’ve got some.”

John froze again in shock, opening his eyes. “You do?”

“I did an experiment to check which brand is the most resistant. There’s about ten boxes under the kitchen sink.”

John looked at him with a confused face. “Under the sink?”

“Where do _you_ keep condoms?” Sherlock asked back, as if there were somewhere else that would be more fit.

“Alright, I’ll go get them,” John said, and dropped a small peck on the detective’s lips.

On his way he passed to his bedroom to get some lube as quickly as he could, hoping no one could see him walking around naked through the windows. When he came back to Sherlock’s room, he had to stop in the doorway to appreciate the picture of that long, lean, albater man displayed in the bed like an offering. His black curls were messy from John’s hands in them, framing his face. Jesus, that face, with those eyes, light but somehow dark and full of promises, with that soft, playful smile on those lips, and John couldn’t help but walk toward him and install himself between the detective’s legs. He looked down at Sherlock’s cock, deep red and leaking, a little pool of precome stagnating on his stomach, and the soldier’s mouth watered. Sherlock kept staring at him the entire time, his hand reaching for John’s.

“How long has it been?” the blond heard himself say.

“Does it really matter?”

“Yes. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“12 years.”

John stared at him, eyes wide. Sherlock was clearly not finding that number of years important. As if it was nothing.

“12 years?!” Bloody hell, that was a lot of pressure on his shoulders.

Sherlock hummed impatiently to close the subject, fisting his hand in John’s short hair and pressing their mouths together, pulling with his teeth at John’s lips and stroking the inside of his mouth with torrid, slow but firm strokes of his tongue. The kiss went up and down in intensity like a roller coaster, the two men losing themselves in it when after a few minutes, Sherlock suddenly tore his mouth away with a gasp, feverish eyes looking up at John. He called his name with a little, breathy voice, lips glistening from the kiss. John held his gaze for a second before dropping one last light kiss to his bow of a mouth and sitting on his knees, fumbling for the lube.

“I think if you lied on your stomach, it’d be easier to acclimate your body to the sensation.”

Sherlock complied and opened his legs, not self-conscious at all about exposing his bare arse to John. The brunet pillowed his head on his arms. “Don’t make it too long, I want you to fuck me as soon as possible.”

John shivered, needing all the thin self-control he had not to whimper at that. Slowly, he passed his palms on the back of Sherlock’s thigh until his fingers were close to the entrance, slowly rubbing it in lazy circles. Sherlock groaned he wanted more and squirmed The blond increased the pressure around his hole. When he thought the muscle felt loose enough, he coated some lube in his hands, warming it up. “Yes, yes, yes,” he could hear Sherlock whisper. As gently as he could, he pushed his index until it was in to the first knuckle.

“God, you’re so tight,” John whispered. He hadn’t had any sex in over three months, and he was torn between his body’s needs and going slowly for Sherlock’s sake, for the sake of making the memory of their first night together incredible.

“Tight is good for you, isn’t it? Give me more.”

Slowly, he inserted the rest of his finger in, inch by inch, until he was fully in. God, he could feel all of Sherlock, the texture of his inside, the softness and hotness of it, the slide of it against his skin. Sherlock groaned, and John started to move, watching raptly as his finger appeared and disappeared in the detective’s pink hole. He loved everything about it, from the little breathy noises Sherlock made to the way the muscles of his thighs clenched. When John felt his flatmate was loose enough, he coated up another finger in lube and added it, feeling Sherlock’s body protest even if the brunet was very much urging him on.

“Relax, it’ll feel better,” John told him soothingly, rubbing his thigh with his free hand.

“I am perfectly relaxed, John.”

Instead of answering, the blond pressed his fingers against Sherlock’s prostate, making the man keen and writhe under him. John was a doctor. He knew how to find a fucking prostate.

“Oh bloody hell, John, fuck!”

John whispered, “Soon, soon, patience love,” and leaned down to nuzzle the curve at the bottom of Sherlock’s spine, still working him open with his fingers. He pushed on his prostate irregularly, knowing that if any man liked not knowing what was up and variety in bed, it was Sherlock Holmes. The latter was shaking slightly under him, his breathing a little bit laboured. John added another finger when he felt confident enough, feeling Sherlock’s hand fist in the sheets. They continued like this for another few minutes before Sherlock half snapped half pleaded, “John, I can’t handle this anymore, I need you in me, right now!”

“But I wanted to rim you before,” the doctor complained, lightly nipping at one of Sherlock’s cheeks. “Work you open with my mouth and fuck you with my tongue. Lick you and discover the taste of you while you beg me to take you.” He licked the crease between Sherlock’s buttcheeks. “I’m sure you beg beautifully.” A flick of his tongue to Sherlock’s hole. He wasn’t sure if he imagined the brunet shivering or not.

“Another time.”

John agreed, because honestly, he wasn’t going to pass out on Sherlock Holmes asking him to fuck him. He removed his fingers and dropped a final kiss on Sherlock’s hole, feeling the man buck his hips as John straightened up, tearing open the condom package unrolling said condom on his shaft. He felt Sherlock struggling to turn around.

“No no, stay the way you were, it’ll be easier for you.”

“John,” Sherlock said with the hint of a smile and yet completely serious features, “do you really think you can make love to me without me needing to see you?”

John stared at him and agreed, realizing that he needed to see Sherlock for that moment, too. He needed that bond between them to be complete, more real and more surreal at the same time.

Gently, he inserted the head of his cock in, freezing when he heard Sherlock take a sharp intake of breath, eyes closing tight in pain. None of them moved for a moment, letting the detective adjust, but _bloody hell_ , John hadn’t had sex in over three months, and Sherlock was so hot and so tight and so soft and he needed to thrust, it was slightly overwhelming. But instead, he brought Sherlock’s leg around his waist, rubbing his thigh to offer him some comfort.

Sherlock eventually relaxed around him, his walls inviting John further inside. He gave the brunet a look, waiting for the permission. Sherlock opened his eyes and almost imperceptibly nodded, one of his hand wrapping around John’s nape. John started to push, antagonizing slow and careful until he was fully in. He let out a whimper when Sherlock squeezed experimentally around his cock.

“John… John, I can feel you move inside me.” Sherlock sounded wrecked, overwhelmed, and John suddenly felt warm, sort of strangely protective. “I can feel the shape of your penis, the-”

“Shh-shh,” the blond kissed the words off the detective’s lips. “Don’t overthink, just relax. Just enjoy this. I’m going to give you everything.”

Sherlock just nodded, eyelids closing again, turning his head on the cushion. John pressed a soft kiss on his cheek. As gently as he could, the doctor pulled almost completely out before thrusting in again, augmenting the pace progressively. Changing the angles a few times, he finally hit the right spot, and Sherlock’s eyes opened wide as his whole body arched off the bed, as if he had been electrocuted

“JOHN!”

The man continued to hit that sweet spot, gasping as the thrusts became harder and faster, some sweat shining on his back. Sherlock passed his hand on it, and bit his other hand, struggling for control.

John slowed his pace, gently removing Sherlock’s hurting hand from his mouth and dropped a light kiss on it, then on the man’s lips.

“Don’t hurt yourself, love,” he whispered. He intertwined their fingers. “Enjoy it. Concentrate on the pleasure, on this, on us.”

Lingeringly but powerfully, he pressed against the brunet’s prostate, seeing Sherlock fighting to keep his eyes open but failing under the delicious sensation. John felt a bit smug to be the only one to see Sherlock like this, to put him in that state. How beautiful he looked like this...

John stared at this man, this most paradoxical man, strong and vulnerable, pure and having seen the worst atrocities of life, shy and yet confident, and wondered how he ever thought he had been in love with any of his exes when he felt such a connexion, such an adoration that were so much more than he ever experienced, so much he wasn't even sure he could handle it. He realized, with no small amount of fear, that he might be in love with Sherlock Holmes. The mere thought of it freaked him out.

But then Sherlock opened his eyes and locked his gaze with John's. The world seemed to stop around them even though John was still thrusting into Sherlock, jaw slack, his breath heavy. Even the sound their skin clasping almost felt inappropriate at the moment. It was as if the detective could read all that was going in his mind, knowing it all, and suddenly he pulled John's head down in a passionate kiss. Lost in the embrace, the emotions and the blissful sensations, the doctor didn't realize they switched positions until Sherlock broke the kiss and started to ride him. It was hard and it was fast, and John’s eyes rolled back in his head, hands grabbing Sherlock’s hips to support him. God, what a view. His wet hair, the muscles of his thighs under the effort, his red dick flushed against his stomach, and fuck the sounds he made, all for him, John could have come of that alone.  
  
He watched, his mouthwatering as Sherlock arched his neck, offering that white column of tempting skin as a gift to John's eyes, and wrapped a hand around his cock, pumping firmly, one, two, three times before his belly was covered in white, long strips and he shuddered, collapsing on top of John as his orgasm weared off, still shaking. John followed him over the edge, murmuring words of praise and swears and nonsense as his climax went on and on and on.

Finally both men came out of their daze, looking at each other with eyes glassy from pleasure. The two of them hissing, Sherlock lifted his hips to let John’s softening prick out of him, removing the condom as he did, and dropped next to John, curling his body around his. The doctor wrapped one arm around Sherlock, the other playing softly with his hair. None of them said a word, getting their breathing under control together until sleep claimed them, still cuddled together in the peaceful darkness of the room.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is going on a case, naked and mysterious, maybe not in that order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah.
> 
> Last chapter.
> 
> This particular ending of one of my fics makes me emotional. I miss John and Sherlock so much, I've actually written ficlets of them before I even finished this chapter.
> 
> I really loved this story and this John and Sherlock, thanks to everybody who left kudos and commented, your feedback means the world to me. :) xx  
> And thanks to Araelle for correcting me and helping me when I don't know what to do and giving me ideas and mainly listening to me rambling about Johnlock all the time. :)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! :) I'll post at least one of the ficlets later this week.

**_2 years later_ **

"I'm off on a case with Lestrade," said Sherlock while looking on his phone where he was lying on the couch. "Some man at a carnival murdered. Inidentificable organic matter was found in his head. Seems of entomological origin. Lestrade wants me to take a look."

John looked up from his computer screen, face puzzled as his brain researched for an information. "That reminds me of something. Did you have a similar case before?"

"Yes," answered Sherlock briefly, and got up. "Might be a serial killer. I know you can't come, you're working from one to seven," he continued before John could say exactly that. "I'll text you if I need you."

"You know I can't leave work between two patients, right? You'll have to wait until my shift is over."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine."

John smiled fondly, got up and pressed a kiss on the other man's lips and rearranged his coat collar. "Be careful," he whispered.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again and got out of the flat in a dramatic swirl of coat, making John smile anew with a little shake of his head. He installed himself back at his post in front of the computer, continuing his blog post where he had left it. Just as he was about to type new words, he noticed the corner of the page flashing, alerting him he had a new comment on a post. An old one, actually, the first he wrote after meeting Sherlock. New fan, then. Well, at least he'll have a lot to read before he catches up and has to wait for updates. Curious, John clicked on the link to see what the person had written.

As the page appeared on the screen, John read the words he had typed what seemed a lifetime ago, which it kind of was. Another life that seemed fuzzy when he tried to remember it, as if nothing were clear, as if nothing made sense then. Everything was so different back then. He couldn’t help but smile while thinking about just how much had changed, step by step, until his life became the wonder it was today.

It hadn’t happen without obstacles and frustration, of course. Dating Sherlock was no easy thing. The man was impossible, both in amazing and hair tearing ways. Lack of good communication had almost broke them off; Sherlock didn’t really see the relevance of saying some rather important things to John. Four days off on a case with leaving no notice for anyone, too lost in the adrenaline of resolving a mystery had John and Lestrade and Mycroft losing their minds looking for him. He came back home only to comment on their ridiculousness: of course he was going to go back home. Another time he had try to look for evidence on a bomb that was going to explode in less than a minute. Yes, John was more than ok with being exposed to danger, but there was being exposed to danger and stupidity. After Sherlock ended up spending three weeks in the hospital, the doctor got pretty angry with him for not taking care of himself. Of course, the detective got mad, he was an adult, he should be able to take his own decisions, he wasn’t _stupid_ .... He didn’t understand that John _needed_ him. Needed him alive, as safe as Sherlock Holmes could ever be.

Of course, there had been some less dramatic events. Some quite funny, actually. Apparently, after they became a couple, Sherlock decided that walking around the flat naked was no longer a problem. Which it wasn’t. Except that clothes were no longer deemed necessary as soon as he was inside the flat, and he put them on only when he had to leave. It was quite entertaining at first. And it generated a lot of sex. Sex in rather original places. That was until Mycroft walked in on Sherlock playing the violin naked in the sitting room with John quietly reading a book on the sofa. That led to John forcing Sherlock to put clothes on, and funny enough, to Mycroft suddenly knocking each time he came to visit, which John didn’t hate at all. 

There was also softer moments, tender moments, that John cherished more than anything. Watching the telly late at night, Sherlock’s head on his lap as the soldier combed his fingers softly through his dark locks, one of Sherlock’s hand mind absently stroking one of his thighs as he commented on the show they were watching. John waking up in the morning with Sherlock’s nose pressed against his nape and arms encircling him, snoring softly, still dressed and above the covers. Reading peacefully in each other’s company, looking at the other from time to time with a little smile, their gazes occasionally meeting before their eyes went back to the pages. Eating leftovers chinese for breakfast in bed as Sherlock talked endlessly, deducing and analyzing cases and John listening to him, offering his opinion when Sherlock asked. Sometimes he called John when the doctor had a break during work, asking him what he thought about a case he was currently working on. John only worked half time, keeping the rest of his days to accompany Sherlock on cases because he loved it and he wouldn’t miss it for the world.

The first “I love you” had been quite an awkward affair, too. John didn’t know what he had been expecting, but it hadn’t been that. He should have seen it coming, though, considering he knew how his brain lost all inhibition as soon as Sherlock started deducting. John suddenly started praising him anytime Sherlock started analyzing something, and the doctor couldn’t even stop himself. That’s how, one day, Sherlock had been crouching in an abandoned canoe close to the Thames, looking through his magnifying glass at mud shaped in footprints, saying, “Obviously the teenage girl was pushed into the water by her canoe partner because she wanted her out of the solo competition in two weeks, then paddled to the shore and ran away into town. Probably to an ice cream parlour. We need the check all the ice cream parlours close to here. The footprints of mud, their hair and the brand of solar cream they brought with them give you all the evidence you need.”

And then, completely inappropriate and somehow so right, eyes so full of admiration, John said it.

“I love you.”

Sherlock had froze, then slowly walked out of the canoe, smiled shyly and bright with joy, and cradled John’s cheeks in his hands, nuzzling his nose then dropping a kiss on his lips.

Then Lestrade cleared his throat. Sort of broke the magic. John giggled.

Weeks later, John was sure that Sherlock loved him. It was undeniable, just seeing how the man acted toward him. When he asked Sherlock, conversationally, one evening as they were talking a walk, why he hadn’t said the words back then, Sherlock answered, confused, “It was obvious I reciprocated the feeling. What was the utility of me saying it?”

Which had been a perfect answer, Sherlock standards and all.

 

_Bzz_

 

John was pulled out of his thoughts, the small smile on his lips disappearing as he heard his phone buzz. He turned around in his chair, looking around the room for the device. After a while he found it, lying under the pillow on his chair. He pressed his thumb to the button, the home screen flashing open under his eyes. A text from Greg.

 

Hey! Got the evening off. Want to go for pints? It’s been a while.

 

John frowned, typing back.

 

**Don’t you have a case with Sherlock? He just left, said you texted him about a murder in a carnival.**

Rings no bell.

Oh bollocks. I hope I’m not ruining his cover, right? Don’t tell him I ruined his cover. 

 

John frowned even more. Yes, Sherlock was a secretive man, but what could he possibly keep secret from John to go to such extremes? He could have just told John he had something and didn’t want to tell him what, or wait for him to go to work. Why lie?

 

**Don’t worry. I’m just wondering what’s he off to again.**

Don’t know mate.

Sorry. 

**It’s okay, not your fault.**

**I won’t be coming for pints though, I’m working this evening.**

Alright then, see you soon enough! 

**Cheers!**

 

Still, something was off. John texted Sherlock.

 

**Everything alright at the case?**

_I barely made it there John. This cabbie is extremely slow. It’s tedious._

**Lestrade told you anything more on the case?**

_Something about a suspect, a man who just escaped prison. I’ll text you the details later._

 

John felt confused, and, to be honest, a bit hurt. He was torn between letting Sherlock know if he knew he was lying or not. The man deserved his secrecy, but this just wasn’t the right way… 

He head off to work, head in the clouds all day. He trusted Sherlock not to be doing anything to hurt their relationship. He just hoped he was safe. Trust Sherlock to lie about getting into great danger so John wouldn’t try to talk him out of it, the doctor reasoned.

Worried, he sent little text messages to the brunet there and then during his shift, hoping for an answer confirming the man was doing well. Which was not something he was used to do, since Sherlock normally texted him constantly.

It was only at the end of shift, exhausted and still stressed about his boyfriend, that John got a text initiated by Sherlock.

 

_4212 Tennant avenue. Come and see this._

 

Relieved, even if he didn’t want to admit it, John sighed and walked to the closest street, waiting for a cab. The route they took after John gave the cabbie the address seemed familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on where they were going. It’s only when the car stopped and that he got out that memories started flooding back, hitting him with such a force he just stood there and couldn’t move, taking in everything.

 

_“Where do you think you’re going? This is a crime scene.”_

_“He’s with me.”_

 

_“And who are you? Another detective? I didn’t know Sherlock had colleagues.”_

 

_“Why do you keep calling him freak?”_

 

_"A new flatmate? Good, we can restart the bid on how long it'll take before you leave. I thought we needed some action."  
"Actually, it might be a bit late for that. I've already been on Baker Street for a month." _

 

The first crime scene Sherlock had brought along John to. The moment they became who they were. The beggining of them, the duo, Watson and Holmes. Sherlock and John.

The doctor made his way inside the building, stopping in front of the stairs. He waited, listening for any sound telling him where Sherlock was, in vain. He called his boyfriend’s name a few time, with no answer. He sighed in exasperation once again, pinching the bridge of his nose, when he noticed a piece of paper scotch taped to the banister of the stairs. Carefully, he detached it, recognising the messy handwriting of Sherlock on it, but it seemed like Sherlock put the effort for it to be neater than usual.

 

_John._

_I have to admit I had no idea how to do this when I first had the idea. I had to go to Molly- she knows those things, watching all that telly and reading those romantic novels. And as you are a romantic, I figured her ideas would be more likely fit to your expectations._

 

Curious, and a bit confused because that didn’t sound like Sherlock at all (Sherlock talking about romance?), John looked around. That’s when he noticed another note higher in the stair case. And another. And another, all leading to the room where the crime scene had been.

 

_She told me it would be nice to bring you to a meaningful place for us, somewhere romantic. I don’t know a lot about romance, but I thought the most meaningful place for us is Baker Street, and the most romantic is Angelo’s. But I also think that neither of this places is special enough, for we are always there, and I want tonight to stand out._

_-_

_Molly asked me about our first date. I couldn’t find an answer. We have never properly been on a date- we spent time out together as flatmates, and then as lovers, but they was no official in between place, even though we were obviously interested by each other._

_-_

_That’s why I decided that our first outing would do. It was, after all, the day after an important step of our relationship. Also, our first crime scene is not a place we returned to, but yet is symbolic of our relationship._

_-_

_I have a feeling that you might know where this is going, as your intelligence is slightly above the average human one. Surely you can deduce it. I do hope you’ll continue to go up and not leave. But if you were to, please do it now to save myself the hearing of your refusal._

_-_

_If you are reading this, I am relieved, happy, honored and humbled that you chose to continue. As you know, I am not a sentimental man, and doing this is extremely difficult for me. That’s why Molly suggested I could write it down._

_-_

_John, you are the best thing that happened to me. As an unattached man, the thought of bonding myself to another person seemed ridiculous two years ago, and quite honestly, it still does. Yet, the fact that this person could be you makes my beliefs and convictions crumble. As you are the first and only person to do that, I do not know if I should be afraid or admirous. I believe I am both. You create paradoxes in me, a feeling that I can’t help but enjoy more everyday._

_-_

_Just as I said, you create feelings in me, feelings I am not used to and do not know or comprehend. Know that you started to do this to me even before I knew you. The first time we texted, the 18th of December, you made me feel things I had never felt before, and only with your words. Of course, you were annoying and drunk, but I believe that fact just shows more of how much impact you have on me, John Watson._

_-_

_As you are aware, I am an unpleasant, cold, direct and ridiculous man. I know my habits would drive away any person, and yet you are still by my side. I live in the fear that one day you will realise with what you are dealing and that you will leave. If this ever the case, I will spend the rest of my life thinking of all the little things I should have said, should have done, getting the milk, cleaning the kitchen of the human parts, not experimenting with your possessions, or simply listening to you when I ignored you because I was too focused on a case. I do realize that saying this right now makes me a hypocrite, as I did think those things and never really did the effort of changing my way of living even though I’m scared they might push you away. Know then that you should not feel guilty if you ever left me, and that as I am a difficult man, it would be entirely because of me. This proposal I am to ask you tonight is then not a trap for you, but simply a symbol, evidence of the effect you have on me. Know that you can walk out anytime in the future._

_-_

_As I said (wrote, technically), this proposal is evidence of my love for you. I do find weddings ridiculous and useless, a waste of money and time, and also quite stupid. Despite that, I feel that you are an amazing, incredible man, who has done things for me, to me and for the world that I have never seen another human do. You are greatness, brightness, strongness, humor, joy, selflessness, perseverance and morality, and I believe that all the good you brought me should be there for everybody to see. You are quite impressive, the only person to have me at your feet (and I do not say this as a way to compliment myself, even if it is true), and a marriage would be evidence of this effect you have on the world._

_-_

_In those last years, you saved me from so many things, but most importantly, you saved me from myself. I was nothing but destruction, danger, loneliness and darkness, putting my life at risk because there was nothing worth fighting for, conserving. I have never thank you for that. I do not understand how you carry the weight of my struggles on your shoulders and still smile, but know that my greatest wish is to help you carry yours as much as you help me. Even if I can only do it half as much as you do, it would be a victory._

_-_

_You are now very close to the room in which I am waiting for you. I am probably listening to every sound you make, trying to deduce what you think, what you are going to do. I am, surely, scared to death, since I already am just writing down these words. Please come to me as soon as possible._

_I love you, John Watson._

_Yours always in mind and body (and soul, since you believe those exist),_

_Sherlock Holmes_

_Post Scriptum: Don’t expect another sentimental declaration anytime soon. That was quite difficult to do._

 

John let go of the breath he didn’t know he had been holding, the world seeming fuzzy and his mind too. He gripped the banister, needing to ground himself with all the emotions running through him. He looked down at all the sheets in his hand, then up at the door he knew Sherlock was waiting behind. Resembling his courage, he walked the few steps separating the door and himself, and opened it. On the other side was Sherlock, standing straight in the middle of the room, hands clenched together in front of himself. They didn’t move for a second, eyes meeting, then the most illuminated smile brightened Sherlock’s features.

“I wasn’t sure this experiment was going to work,” he said.

“Idiot,” said John with a matching beam, and walked to him. “When did you ever fail an experiment?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TADAAAA!!!! :)
> 
> Feedback is still appreciated. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on http://canoe23.tumblr.com :)


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